Roundabout
by Langleykel
Summary: There always seems to come a moment when you count your losses and move on."
1. Defeat

**Roundabout**

Season-4 Futurefic, AU

**A/N**: This is a fic that I actually started to outline about a year ago. I ended up abandoning the idea because I was swamped with schoolwork, but I rediscovered it while cleaning the hard drive of my old laptop. Anyway, I know that I should be working on TEIP...but I've hit a terrible dry spell and decided to really work at this to get the inspiration flowing once again. Basically I've re-worked this idea to fit into the current status of our beloved Alias characters. It's not a long fic...about 5 or 6 parts...but I hope you enjoy.

**Part 1--Defeat**

It started with a kiss.

Like most kisses, it had seemed like the beginning of something wonderful. Lauren was gone and in what should have been a bittersweet moment, they savored only the sweetness of their reunion. In the midst of the veritable battlefield, he took her battered form into his arms and kissed her with an earnestness that promised a world of good. She was unaware of the biting cold and she didn't feel the scratch of his stubble against her cheek, but she did feel a hurried pound beneath her hand as she rested a palm against his chest. With every beat of his heart, she could see a flash of what used to be...a promise of what _could_ and _would_ be once again.

It was a tumultuous time for them both. While Vaughn dealt with Lauren's obvious betrayal, Sydney was forced to face her father's own particular brand of deception. The people they had loved were responsible for their respective years of grief. So it wasn't difficult for them to commiserate, to help each other cope. Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner led to drinks. And those drinks led them towards a passion that they both craved and feared. It wasn't more than three weeks before Vaughn reclaimed his drawer. And it wasn't four months later that he surprised her with a simple diamond ring and a plea for her hand.

_"Most people say that they can't imagine their lives without the one they love. I've lived it. I've lived my life without you, Sydney. That's not living. It's an endless cycle of going through life's motions and it's a part I can't play any longer. I need you with me, Syd. For good. Will you marry me?"_

Truth be told, it _had_ seemed rushed...even at the time. But Sydney felt that she was merely taking the steps she would have taken years before had she not fallen victim to the Covenant's ploy. She was in love and afraid of hesitation. Hesitation was misfortune's window of opportunity and she'd be damned if misfortune struck again. So she held her breath, offered an exhilarated yes, and hoped with all her might that the good would only get better.

_Oh, behold the naiveté of you._

This is the thought running through Sydney Bristow's head as she presses on the accelerator and shifts against the worn, leather seat. A dull ache has settled in her lower back after so many hours at the wheel and the sensitive skin on her neck is an angry red due to the unapologetic rubbing of her seatbelt strap. Urging her six-cylinders along, she lifts a paper cup from the cupholder and slurps thirstily through the straw despite the fact that the cola has been flat for more than 200 miles. She doesn't even notice. Defeat has long since left a bitter taste in her mouth.

_Blue skies and mild temperatures had motivated them to barbecue. Vaughn was poking and prodding at the sizzling meat while __Sydney__ looked over his shoulder. The ring felt heavy on her left hand as she casually began rubbing his back, and she couldn't help but smile with some sense of relief at the sight of the diamond. Things were finally falling into place._

_The phone rang three times before he reached it and a smile played at the corners of his when he greeted the caller. Keeping an eye on their dinner, __Sydney__ waited impatiently for him to return. But she knew in an instant, from his slackened posture and his desperate frown, that their outdoor dinner was going to be put on hold. _

_She can recall just three words from the remainder of that evening._

_"Lauren's alive."_

_"How?"_

_The rest is a haze._

Squinting against the bright headlights of an oncoming vehicle, she finds herself mourning the fact that she wasn't strong enough to rescue Vaughn from his world of spite and revenge. She stayed with him for more than six months after that fateful phone call. For the first few months, she was a partner in his quest. She accompanied him on operations, followed-up on leads, and met with contacts. She was almost as invested in the search as him. But as time went on, the leads dwindled and their efforts were proving to be fruitless. She was a helpless onlooker of the slow and destructive transformation as it took place. Smiles and kisses and talk of the wedding took the back-burner to late-night phone calls, unscheduled trips, and silence at the dinner table. Sydney, of all people, understood Vaughn's need for justice, but she also knew that she couldn't afford to settle for such a life.

_The sound of chirping crickets and a sudden gust of cool air managed to stir __Sydney__ from a fairly sound slumber. A sleepy glance toward her bedroom window found Vaughn's defeated silhouette gazing out the window and __Sydney__ slipped silently out of bed to join him in the moonlight._

_"Vaughn?" _

_"Not now, __Sydney_

_"Vaughn, are you okay?"_

_"I said..." His voice is harsh for a moment until he seems to realize the abrasiveness of his tone. His rigidity wavers just the tiniest bit as he continues. "Just go back to bed, __Sydney_

The narrow, northbound freeway is dark and empty, but a quick glance toward the digital display tells her why. Two in the morning. Has she really been on the road for that long? Her sudden sigh betrays her exhaustion as she fiddles with a knob and adjusts the volume of a fuzzy Rolling Stones tune. An uncomfortable pressure in her abdomen tells her that her earlier thirst has come back to kick her in the rear, so she turns an eye to the side of the road in search of a restroom.

_With a bag of groceries in each arm and one precariously perched somewhere in the middle, __Sydney__ knew that there was no way she would be unlocking and opening her apartment door. Hoping to avoid a disastrous spill, she tapped lightly on the door with her foot and called out, "Vaughn! Vaughn, can you come help me with these groceries? Vaughn?"_

_Assuming he must have been kept late at work, __Sydney__ somehow managed to put down her grocery bags without a problem and she let herself into the apartment. She wasn't prepared, however, to see Vaughn sitting sullenly on the couch in front of a muted television where he had obviously heard her struggling outside._

_Setting the first bag on the counter, __Sydney__ tried to get his attention again. "Vaughn?" But it wasn't until she placed herself directly in his eye-line that he actually acknowledged her._

_"What?"_

_"Didn't you hear me calling you?"_

_His shrug caused __Sydney__ to drill him with a questioning gaze._

_He responded sullenly. "The latest lead was a dead-end. She's gone."_

The toilet-seat is chipped and the constant drip of the faucet is nauseating, but the small Texaco station offers the only facilities for the next sixty miles. After relieving herself of the forty-something ounce soda, Sydney unzips a nylon duffle and unloads a vast inventory of drugstore products. A quick glance towards the falsified birth certificate tells her that Megan Andrews will be the one to leave this restroom. She's down a bottle of Classic Auburn hair-dye, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and has gained a fringe of bangs by the time she has finished her handiwork. Disappearing is something that she's good at and metamorphosis is a process she has perfected. Streaky remnants of industrial glass cleaner blur her reflection and she is suddenly saddened as she realizes her efforts are probably for nothing.

Nobody is coming after her.

For the first time in her life she is running without being chased. And this realization causes her to sob pathetically, her cheek pressed against the coolness of the dirty, tiled wall.

* * *

She's probably at the grocery store.

This is his first thought upon arriving to a silent apartment. She's been quiet lately and she was upset earlier that morning. Maybe she wants to be alone. He wonders if she still likes the pier or the observatory or the train station. And he sits on the couch and waits. But six hours, three bad movies and a six-pack later, it dawns on him that she might not be at the grocery store or at the pier.

_She couldn't have been serious…could she?_

He's quiet as he moves through her apartment and enters the room they've shared for the past six months. The large bed is neatly draped in chenille and the pillows are arranged in the just-so fashion that Sydney prefers. Brass fixtures clatter rudely as Vaughn pulls and pushes on her fully-stocked dresser drawers. He nearly chuckles at his own paranoia when he surveys the completely normal state of affairs, but his amusement sticks in his throat when a tiny object catches his attention from across the room. Moving swiftly to her nightstand, his eyes widen as he retrieves the misplaced item and a conversation from that morning runs rampant in his head.

_"How'd the meeting with your contact go?" _

_He was sitting on the middle cushion of the couch and feigning interest in a sports magazine when __Sydney__'s voice startled the brooding frown from his face. He turned back to answer her with a shake of his head. "Dead end."_

_She nodded slowly as though she was weighing his response. "I see." _

_He watched as she moved slowly around the front of the couch and he noted that she seemed to do everything more slowly these days. She settled into the overstuffed embrace of the armchair and eyed him with a pained expression, opening and closing her mouth as she prepared to speak the terrible thoughts in her head. But Vaughn was momentarily oblivious to __Sydney__'s obvious internal battle as he found himself wondering when he and Sydney had started sitting on opposite ends of the room. _

_"I need more." Her words were loud and firm and abrupt. And they succeeded in yanking Vaughn's head roughly from the clouds._

_"I'm sorry…what?" _

_Her feet were planted firmly on the ground and her clenched fists were pressing into her knees. She lifted the heel of her hand and rubbed at the pain that resided just behind her eyes. She looked tired and scared and…regretful? _

_A ragged sigh passed her lips and she fixed her eyes on a point near his feet as she continued. "I've been through a lot, Vaughn. We've both been through a lot. But there always seems to come a moment when you count your losses and move on. You don't forget, but you start living for what's ahead instead of what's behind." Her uneven voice cracked and he could hear her sadness in the soft sobs she was trying to cover up. Still, she continued. "I had that moment…after Danny. The moment I decided to take off my engagement ring.. It didn't seem so important at the time, but I know now that it was at that moment that I stopped letting my need for revenge control my life. That was when I chose you."_

_Vaughn tensed visibly at her admission. "You think I don't love you?" He gaped at her in genuine disbelief and she dabbed at her moist eyes as she shook her head._

_"I believe that you love me. But I think you hate Lauren more. You're living for her, Vaughn. You're consumed by your desire to find her. I can't condemn you for that and I can't force you to move on. But if you won't, I might have to." _

_And in a slow but fluid motion, she stood up, crossed the room, and pressed a tear-moistened kiss to his forehead before leaving the room._

Now, hours later, one particular line echoes ceaselessly in his head.

_The moment I decided to take off my engagement ring. _

The diamond ring glitters tauntingly from between his fingers and Michael Vaughn is completely numb.

* * *

The first thing she notices about the motel room is the filthy scent of cigarette smoke clinging tightly to the coarse fibers that adorn the space. Apparently it's not the type of establishment to get concerned over California smoking laws. She guesses that it's probably not the type of establishment to concern itself with _any_ kinds of laws. She sets her duffle atop the dresser and notices that much of the finish has been rubbed away to leave the wood looking raw and exposed. The towels are thin and so are the walls, but the staleness of the room seems appropriate given her own sense of lifelessness. She has given up her home, her job, her friends, and her fiancé. But for what? Most people make such sacrifices to embrace a better life, but for Sydney Bristow, the road ahead looks just as bleak as the one she's traveled.

What has she done? Is she a horrible person for leaving him? Where does one draw the line between self-sacrifice and self-preservation?

This sudden and rather intense moment of regret has Sydney perched on the edge of the bed with a cellphone in hand. Her father's telephone number glows in the display and she lets her thumb hover over the 'Send' button before she tosses the phone away with a frustrated groan. She hasn't spoken to her father in months, his most recent betrayal having proven to be the final rift to tear them apart, and she's not about to yell for help now. She glances back toward the phone as it rests against the loud pattern of the bedspread and rubs a hand against her tired eyes. The small Nokia will likely live in the glove compartment of her car and, with just one important number stored in its phonebook, will serve as her last remaining tie to her Los Angeles life. It's a number she'll never have to use and a voice she'll never hear if all goes as planned.

Another moment passes before the road-grim becomes too much for her to handle. She can't wash her hair since the dye is still so fresh, but with the help of a courtesy shower-cap she relaxes under the shower's rather overzealous spray. The scent of detergent is strong as Sydney sits between stiff, white sheets and she finds herself wishing that she could turn her thoughts off for the night. She's grown used to sleeping alone since Vaughn's searches for Lauren have kept him away more often than not, but her racing mind keeps her from much-needed rest. Her sweats and t-shirt are soft and familiar, and for an instant she imagines that things are the way they were. Before the phone call. She lowers her head to the pillow and can't help but eye her naked ring finger. She thinks of the beautiful ring and wonders if he's found it yet. More than that, she wonders if he cares.

_"Vaughn? Where are you going?" Dressed and ready for a rare evening out, __Sydney__ was surprised to see Vaughn come charging down the hall with a small suitcase in tow._

_"I just spoke with a contact in __Zurich__. We've got another lead. We have to move now."_

_"I thought we had plans. We haven't spent an evening together in… Can't they send someone else?"_

_"I'm going, __Sydney__. I have to go. I'll be back in a few days." His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked her in the eye. "I'll see you soon." The slam of the front door punctuated his words._

_Sydney__ nodded to no one in particular and scolded herself for getting her hopes up. "Happy Birthday to me." And with one tug at her hair, her careful up-do came tumbling down in a tangled mess._

For the thousandth time since leaving, she wonders if she's made a huge mistake. After all, she still loves him and she knows that he loves her. Love is supposed to be enough. Love is supposed to overcome. But love has never been a problem in their relationship.

It's the overwhelming presence of hate that has Sydney Bristow running.

TBC...


	2. Escape

**A/N:** To say that I am humbled by the incredible response to this story would be a gross understatement. I am both flattered and honored that so many of you have enjoyed the first part of this journey. I hope that you will continue to do so. Thank you so much for the overwhelming amount of support and encouragement. It absolutely means the world to me. Ellie

**Part 2--Escape**

_3 Months Later_

Megan Andrews sells real estate

She gets to work at nine o'clock and leaves promptly at five. There are occasional instances that require work during off-hours, but they are few and far between, and the cyclical nature of her newfound life sometimes threatens to make her dizzy. She doesn't love her job, but then she doesn't dislike it either. After years of improvisation and persuasion, she's discovered that she's an excellent saleswoman, and it's nice to be good at selling something besides one of her many aliases.

Beachcomber Realty is housed by a small, brown shingled building that looks as though it may be lifted at any moment by an ambitious gust of wind. A bell hangs over the door and three pairs of eyes lift in greeting whenever it chimes. She sits every day at a large oak desk and sips at a paper cup of coffee until its lukewarm bitterness becomes more than she can handle. There are no pictures to adorn her desk, no knick-knacks to commemorate her past or present. Just a complimentary desk-calendar she received from her phone company and a shiny plaque with the name 'Megan Andrews' etched in bold, capital letters.

The real-estate discovery was made one rainy evening as Sydney sat on a soft bed in a small room filled with flowers and doilies. After emptying her accounts in Los Angeles, Sydney had been relieved to open an account with a local bank. She had been less than relieved, however, to discover that the only place with a room available was a chintzy Bed & Breakfast owned by a woman who seemed to believe that Valentine's Day was a year-round event.

It was here that Sydney Bristow looked in the mirror to see Megan staring back. Megan Andrews, a quiet graduate of the University of Washington and holder of a newly-earned real-estate license. A shy, young woman who hates running and has never been to a hockey game. Megan Andrews, who can't stand violence and wishes she could speak a foreign language. Megan, who likes to drink tea and wears pastels, loves the idea of romance but has never truly been in love.

Megan Andrews, Sydney has decided, has never known the pain of a broken heart.

* * *

He's angry with her. Three months after finding her engagement ring, he still can't believe that she left him alone to deal with the tangled web of Lauren's lies. He can't understand how she could be so selfish and so weak. He thought she would understand the fervent need for justice after being deceived by someone you love.

Apparently he overestimated her.

The numbness he felt at her departure had stayed with him for several days. After finding her ring, he'd simply set it back on the nightstand just as he'd found it, and walked silently back to the living room to reacquaint himself with the couch's middle cushion. He knows now that it was an attempt to rewind, that maybe if he froze the moment, if he pretended that he hadn't found the ring, pretended that he didn't know, she might walk through the front door with a chirpy greeting. But the front door would remain closed for three more days. And when it finally opened, a worried Weiss was on the other side.

_"Damn it, Mike! Where have you been? You were supposed to board your flight to __Valencia__ more than four hours ago. __Mission__? Lauren? __Spain__? Ring any bells?" Weiss snapped his fingers in front of Vaughn's face._

_"She's gone." The two words were his only muttered response. _

_"Who's gone?"_

_Sydney__! Who do you think?" He spat her name in frustration and shook his head in disbelief. "She left me. She just took off and left me to deal with everything alone. I guess she can't handle someone else playing the part of the victim."_

_Weiss shook his head. "That's not fair, man."_

_"It's not fair that she just up and left because I wasn't playing Ozzie to her Harriet! I stood by her side for years while she worked through her issues with Danny's death and Sloane. I guess I was just stupid to assume that she would do the same for me."_

_"Except…" Weiss started to counter Vaughn's claim, but hesitated when he realized how irrational his best friend was in that very moment._

_"Except what?"__ Vaughn all but sneered in Weiss' direction, just daring him to continue._

_Weiss was about to respond when a look of understanding passed like a shadow over his features. This was what __Sydney__ had been living for the past six months. He gave a wry laugh before he looked Vaughn dead in the face. "Who the hell are you? What have you done to yourself? Do you not understand that you hurt __Sydney__? You hurt her, Vaughn."_

_"I gave her a ring. I asked her to marry me! And she wakes up one day and decides that I'm not devoted enough??" Vaughn's bitter tone grew colder with every word. "It's not like I'm some workaholic lawyer who refuses to come home for dinner. I'm a goddamn CIA agent! And I'm just trying to make sure that Lauren pays for what she's done. Hell, __Sydney__ is an expert on the topic of vengeance."_

_"Except that somewhere in the middle of __Sydney__'s fight against SD-6, it stopped being about revenge and started to be about the two of you and your future." Weiss reminded him._

_"What the hell do you think I'm fighting for?" Vaughn asked incredulously. _

_Weiss studied him for a moment before responding. "I don't know, Vaughn. You tell me."_

It's been three months of living without her and he still hasn't been able to answer that question. Instead, he avoids the issue altogether by throwing himself headfirst into work and his continued search for Lauren. He has convinced himself that the searing emptiness he feels will be remedied when he apprehends Lauren. He tells himself that he's okay; that he'll survive without her. And he almost believes it. But just when he's on the verge of pushing her absence from his mind, he'll enter their apartment and wonder where the scent of vanilla has gone. Or he'll attempt to arrange the decorative pillows on the bed and wonder how in the world Sydney had done it.

It's been strange to live in an apartment that was hers before it was theirs and he's considered moving, but there's something that keeps him from moving on. Something always prevents him from scanning the real estate ads. Probably the same thing that stops him from replacing her favorite bedspread or even emptying her dresser drawers. Instead he keeps himself surrounded by the little reminders of her and, despite the torture, he lets them be.

* * *

"Quentin! Quentin, get back here right now!"

The grains of wet sand squeak beneath her bare feet as she pounds down the beach at full-speed. With a look of dismay, she watches as her Golden Retriever leaps down the beach with her leash dragging along behind her. When she'd adopted the dog two months before, she hadn't had any training whatsoever. And while she's improved immensely, her leash manners still leave something to be desired.

Thoroughly exhausted, Sydney ceases her chase and rubs the tenderness in her shoulder that always flares up when she allows Quentin to drag her down the beach. She's not overly concerned about the dog's freedom since she always comes running back when she reaches wall of jagged rock about two hundred yards away. With a tired sigh, she lowers herself to the sand and stares out into the water as the last crescent of sunlight dips beneath the horizon. The sky is colorless and the rolling waves look black in the sudden darkness, but this is Sydney's favorite moment of the day. The moment between day and night. A tiny slice of time when she doesn't have to be anyone or anything. She can simply _be_.

Turning an eye down the long expanse of flurried sand, she is relieved to see that her dog has turned around and is gaily loping back in her direction. A few moments later, she's panting heavily at Sydney's feet and parading a look of triumph over her obvious victory in their race. Sydney shakes her head before reaching down to give the dog a pat. Clipping the nylon leash to Quentin's matching collar, Sydney turns her back on the rolling surf and heads toward home with the retriever trotting at her heels. As frustrating as she can be, Quentin has saved her from the intensity of the loneliness that engulfed her upon her arrival in Fort Bragg.

It hadn't taken more than a quick drive through the pretty little seaside town and a steaming cup of French Roast for her decision to be made. This was the place. So after an extended stay at that eccentric bed and breakfast, she'd settled into what can only be described as a seaside cottage. Although the Victorian architecture is consistent with the town's other structures, its one bedroom, one bathroom size distinguishes it from its larger counterparts. And while it was probably colored in the traditional vivid hues at one time, the house now wears an understated gray as a wraparound porch hugs its small circumference. A weathered picket fence wraps its way around a small yard as timid flowers poke out of the ground and a broken gate swings loudly on rusty hinges. It's not actually on the beach. Such a feature would have taken even the tiniest house right out of Megan Andrews' limited price range. But the Pacific is close enough to send a crisp, misty breeze across her porch every morning. And it's close enough to keep her constantly scrubbing at the layer of sea-salt embedded on her windowpanes.

Slipping her shoes off when she reaches her front porch, Sydney attempts to catch her breath. Quentin wags her tail happily and she can't help but laugh at the dog's giddiness. Doing her best to dust most of the sand from Quentin's golden coat, Sydney finally unlocks the front door and lets the dog scramble through the door in front of her. She doesn't have plans for the Saturday afternoon so she thinks she may just lounge around the house and read. Perhaps go for a drive through the redwoods later in the evening to clear her mind.

Life is different here. Haircuts are cheaper, breakfasts are bigger, and houses are older with more colorful histories. Time seems to move more slowly and the world seems quieter. The change has been a welcome one, but Sydney would be lying if she was to claim that Megan Andrews had it all.

What Megan does have is a cozy cottage near the ocean and a wonderful canine companion in Quentin. Megan has a flexible and satisfying job in real estate which leaves plenty of time for reading, coffee, and manicures. Megan has several neighbors who wave hello…and one who wants to take her to dinner. She has peace and quiet and reliability in her life, which are all of the things Sydney Bristow once desired for herself.

What Megan doesn't have is Michael Vaughn.

* * *

He settles back against the upholstered seat and releases a sigh of defeat. The ice cubes in his orange juice have long since melted and his continued sips are simply a measure of courtesy. An anonymous tip just two days before had enticed him enough to immediately purchase a ticket to Nice, where he had been successful in accosting approximately six blonde women who bore a vague resemblance to his ex-wife. Unfortunately, none of his so-called victims had been his intended target, so after several apologies and a reluctant admittance of defeat, he decided to call it quits and go home. Perhaps even more unfortunate however, was the route he selected when he decided to take a walk for some much needed fresh air. The restaurant had looked as quaint and had smelled as delectable as when he and Sydney were just another pair of patrons. He remembers the cream-colored sweater and the nervous smile that played uncertainly over her features. He remembers how mesmerized he was on that night and he wonders for a second if such painful assaults on his memory will ever fade to become fond thoughts of the past. He wonders, but he doubts it.

A shrill cry suddenly erupts from just across the aisle and when Vaughn turns his head, his sight meets the apologetic eyes of young father. A baby dressed in a fuzzy blue sleeper is now curled against his mother's chest as she quiets his cries with soft whispers and little kisses. The man offers a small nod at Vaughn before turning his attention back to his family, pressing a kiss to his wife's temple, and brushing a finger lightly across the baby's chubby cheek.

Vaughn watches the small family with an odd fascination and is surprised to feel the searing emptiness of the past three months start to grow. He allows himself to ponder what has previously been stored in his mind's 'No Trespassing' zone. He thinks of Sydney, of where she is, and what they would be doing if she had stayed. Would they have been on their way to resembling the trio across the aisle? Probably not, he figures, since the search for Lauren keeps him so busy. But a quick glance back toward the now-sleeping baby awakens something in his mind. What that man has seems to be worth so much more than any kind of revenge or justice.

For the first time since Sydney left, he wonders where he went wrong.

* * *

The brevity of the night's ocean breeze forces a subtle shiver to pass over her exposed skin and ruffles the thin pages of the book she's reading. Setting the book down, she tangles her fingers in long strands of fringe to pull the knit blanket from her lap, instead cocooning herself in its warmth by draping it over her shoulders. It's almost too cold for this. But she pushes the discomfort of the chill out of her mind and resumes her reading as she settles against the wood-back of the porch swing.

_"The door opened, swung inward. He stood in it for a moment, hiding the room, then he stepped aside. "Go in," he said in a thick, light voice. They went in… The bed had not been disturbed. On the floor lay a soiled undergarment of cheap silk a little too pink, from a half open bureau drawer dangled a single stocking. The window was open. A pear tree grew there, close against the house. It was in bloom and the branches scraped and rasped against the house and the myriad air, driving in the window, brought into the room the forlorn scent of the blossoms." _

She's nearly breathless as she reads Faulkner's exquisite words. _The Sound and the Fury_ isn't typical of the novels favored by Megan Andrews. Actually, Sydney believes Megan to be more of a Harlequin romance kind of girl. But after all the loves Sydney Bristow has surrendered in past months, her love for great literature is a casualty she can't allow. So she is here on her front porch and she is reading about Quentin Compson's escape. Of a young woman's escape from a house that is filled to the brim with nothingness. She reads about the discovery of Quentin's absence, of her untouched bedroom, and she identifies.

Her own Quentin rests loyally at her side and Sydney smiles down at her lone companion. It's no coincidence that the dog shares a name with one of her favorite literary heroines. Making an escape has been all but easy for Sydney, but Quentin is her companion in her search for a new future. Not a perfect one. But one that is hers to claim. Even if she has to do it with another woman's name.

She marks her spot in the book and shakes her head in frustration as she hears the squeak of the swaying front gate. Dreams have been plaguing her lately. She thinks tonight's was triggered by the exuberance of a young and engaged couple as she showed them an adorable, fixer-upper earlier in the day. Their clasped hands, the occasional flicker of the diamond, and their optimism for what the house could become had taunted her. Of course, while Megan Andrews had simply smiled as she emphasized the hardwood floors and the vaulted ceilings; Sydney was positively aching for a future that was now destined to remain in the past. And behind the façade, her soul is still throbbing.

A quick glance through the front window tells her that it is nearly one o'clock in the morning and that she should be heading back to bed. Her listlessness, on the other hand, is telling her that it might do her good to go for a quiet drive. Because while Sydney Bristow always had the pier and the train station; Megan Andrews has a quiet camaraderie with the massive trees of the redwood forests. It takes just one thought of the coveted solitude she feels on her drives and she is rummaging through a drawer to find her car keys.

The streets are quiet and damp as a thin fog tumbles quietly across the coast. With the radio off and the heater humming, she takes a deep breath. Suddenly she's not Megan Andrews or a tea-drinker or a lover of pastels. As she winds through dense darkness of the forest, she is Sydney Bristow. And she is allowed to miss, to mourn, to wish, and to regret. So she does.

TBC…

Excerpt from William Faulkner's _The Sound and the Fury_.


	3. Pursuit

**Roundabout**

**By**: Ellie (Chshalogrl)

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. That is all.

**A/N:** This one is…different. I guess that's the best way to put it. There's not a whole lot of traditional S/V action, but it's an important chapter. Hope the new perspective works for you, but it should be back to normal next chapter. Thanks for reading!

I don't usually respond to feedback, but I really appreciated some of the insight you guys offered on this fic. So here goes…

**Nattie700- **You're welcome! I'm glad that this fic has found its way into your little Alias-lovin heart. Thanks for the wonderful feedback! And yes, Strictly Ballroom is a great movie. :)

**Tracy-** Thank you so much for the wonderful comments. I'm glad that you're enjoying this fic and that you enjoy my writing style. I hope I can continue to entertain you!

**Sara-**Thank you! And don't worry too much about Vaughn. He'll be coming around at some point…I think.

**Tricia-** Yes. Poor Sydney. But poor Vaughn too. They've both been through a lot. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing. Glad you enjoyed.

**Xanya****-forever-** Aaah yes. One of my most faithful reviewers. I can't even tell you how many times your wonderfully enthusiastic reviews have made me smile. I'm not sure I'm really deserving of such a wonderful reader…but I'll take you anyway. Thanks for all of your support. Happy Reading!

**Eridani****-**Thank you for reading and for leaving some insightful feedback. Yes, the characterization is a little off-beat…actually this whole fic is a little bit off-beat. Especially for me. But I'm glad that you feel that it's working as a whole. I hope you continue to enjoy. Thanks!

**Fair Cate-** I'm glad that you're reading and enjoying. As far of the POV goes…technically the fic is all 3rd person POV. And as far as switching focus from character to character, it's meant to be ambiguous. It's supposed to be a little bit confusing…that's a conscious decision on my part. If it helps, the marks that look like this: indicate a switch in characters. But I don't like to spoonfeed my fics…so I won't be dividing the chapters any different. Thanks for the suggestion though. That's the kind of feedback I love. :)

**Valley-Girl2-**Another of my most loyal readers. I always look forward to your reviews because I love to see which quotes you have selected as your favorites. I appreciate your loyalty to my fics over the past year or so and I hope that I can continue to keep you entertained. Thanks so much for the amazing comments!

**Ren201-**LOL, I can't give away what's going to happen…but I will say that I'm an S/V shipper. Just look at my fluff fics! I'm big on happy endings. Thanks for the comments!

**Part 3--Pursuit**

It's been a slow night for Deputy Officer Tom Fields. When he had agreed to work the graveyard shift for the Mendocino County Sheriff's Department, he had anticipated a constant string of late-night crimes and after-hour drunks. What he's discovered instead is the layer of tranquility that seems to hover over the area in the hours of darkness. So now, with just two hours left in his shift, Tom is parked alongside State Highway 20 in an effort to catch a wayward speeder in the act.

He isn't disappointed.

The first car to pass in nearly an hour is traveling the speed limit of 55 miles per hour. Not five minutes behind, however, comes a large, black, pick-up going more than thirty miles over the speed limit and weaving recklessly across the center lines. With a shake of his head and muttered curses, he has his lights spinning and siren squealing as he goes in hot pursuit of the cocky driver. With his foot to the floor, he continues to release a string of disbelieving curses as the road enters and winds through a dense patch of the giant redwoods. The curves are quick and blind, but neither factor seems to be of particular concern to the pursued driver.

Trying to keep his own vehicle at a safe speed while attempting to keep up with the speeding car is no easy task and Tom slams a frustrated hand against the steering wheel when the car careens around a treacherous turn. He's just slowing his own car into the sharp bend when the red glow of taillights disappears around the corner.

The painful screech of skidding tires is the first thing he hears before it bleeds messily into the sounds of two impacts. The first a metallic crunch, like a can under a stomping foot, then the groan of bent steel and shattering of glass, all of which are drowned out by the drone of the police siren. Tom hears it before he sees it and assumes that the speeding truck has hit the guard rail and gone off the road. But as he finally rolls slowly around the curve, the true situation is laid out in front of him and he is frozen in his seat. He blindly fumbles over his knobs and switches before finally silencing his siren, but he leaves his lights flashing, the red and blue strobes flickering brightly against the thick trunks of the forest's massive trees. A quick moment of disbelief has Tom wondering how it could have happened so quickly. Where did the other car come from? Why would someone else be on the road at this hour? As quickly as he can ask himself such questions, he remembers his role and finds himself reaching for his radio to put in a call for back-up.

* * *

Vaughn feels a strange combination of stark relief and mind-numbing fear as he walks through the terminal at LAX. He wouldn't call it a "revelation" or a moment of "enlightenment". After all, he's still not entirely sure how he feels. The sense of hurt at her inability to cope with his issues still hovers nearby, but a quick inventory of their last several months together is telling. He's frightened by certain memories. Memories of indifference towards her, of letting her eat alone, of abandoned birthday celebrations. The times that seemed so insignificant when compared to Lauren's apprehension are now the memories that are painful to recall. Even scarier perhaps are the things he _can't_ recall.

He can't remember the last time they made love.

It's taken two days in Nice, an international flight, and a twenty-minute cab ride. But the dark curtain of revenge and hatred is finally being pulled from over his eyes and he is blinded by a light that can come from nowhere, nothing, and no one but Sydney.

_"Nah." Vaughn shook his head. "I don't buy it."_

_Sydney__ narrowed her eyes and glanced back toward the rolling credits of the romantic movie they'd just finished watching. "You don't buy what exactly?"_

_Glancing at her, he thought for a moment before turning his whole body to face hers. "They were supposed to be so in love. I mean they spend the first half of the movie convincing us that they're soulmates and destined to be together. But then they just fall outof love? I don't buy it. If they're in love, they're in love."_

_"Ah, yes. But in all of history's great romances, there comes a test. And sometimes that test separates the two for awhile. It's when they find their way back to one another that they know. It's truly true love." __Sydney__ smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. "I think it's romantic."_

_"Well, if you really want me to, I could leave for a few months. Maybe a few years…"_

_Sydney__ shook her head with a laugh. "No, thank you. We've had our fair share of separation. Two and a half years was quite enough."_

_Vaughn shrugged teasingly before slipping a hand into his pocket and fingering the soft velvet of the ring box. "If you say so." But one word was consuming his thoughts._

_Soon._

He's at his desk and has scrawled a hackneyed letter of sentiment and apology before it occurs to him that he has nowhere to send it. It's not as though she left him a note on where to reach her in case of emergency. He lifts both hands and rubs at the tension in his face. It's three o' clock in the morning and while his sudden revelation has lifted a heavy burden from his shoulders, it has also allowed an overdue sense of exhaustion to settle deep into his bones.

He suddenly aches for sleep almost as much as he aches for Sydney, so he forces himself to their bedroom where her ring still rests on the nightstand and her clothes still hang in the closet. For the first time in three months, he picks up the ring to place it back into its velvet box and he inhales the scent of vanilla from a bottle of body mist that still sits on the dresser. With the box clutched tightly in his hand and the scent still fresh on his mind, he falls to the bed without bothering to change his clothes, and he sleeps soundly.

* * *

With the end of summer has come the early breath of cool autumn evenings and as Tom steps out of his squad care, he shivers. The massive redwoods block any silver strands of moonlight and the utter silence that has fallen over the forest is terrifying. A pair of headlights pierce the heavy darkness with their intense wattage, but the bright beams are pointing upward instead of ahead. Turned over, the vehicle rocks on its flattened roof and four tires poke awkwardly into the air. The speeding truck has plunged headfirst into the trunk of a tree and lolls drunkenly as its back end hovers over a trench at the road's shoulder. All proper actions and steps are forgotten as Tom strides quickly towards the truck to apprehend the vehicle's driver. A large man, likely in his forties, rolls clumsily out of the pick-up with a groan and a hand pressed to his head.

"Jesus, call an ambulance. I think I've got a concussion or some damn thing." Staggering forward, the man's face is awash in red and then blue as the lights roll over his inebriated features and his breath tells Tom everything he needs to know.

Tom stares in disgust, but says nothing as he quickly catches the man's wrists and roughly steers him over the layer of debris to the backseat of the squad car.

"What the hell! What do you think you're doing? You bastard!" The man is still yelling obscenities as Tom slams the car door and hurries toward the overturned vehicle. Shards of glass crunch beneath his shoes as he approaches the driver's side and drops to his knees. The car's roof has been all but flattened and the glass of the windshield is now scattered across the highway. The cracks in the driver's window are web-like and smeared with sticky redness. With the flashlight from his belt, Tom sees the long, dark hair of the driver as she hangs awkwardly from the straps of her seatbelt.

"Ma'am! Miss?! Can you hear me?" Tom immediately begins calling for her attention and is relieved to hear the distant wail of an approaching ambulance. Frustrated by the lack of response, Tom curses for the umpteenth time. "Damnit! Why would you be out here at this time of night anyway? You should be safe at home with your kids or your husband or whoever!"

"Officer Fields?"

Tom turns around to see a young paramedic standing just behind him. He speaks softly as he steps aside. "Just the driver. Female. Maybe thirty or so. No sign of consciousness. No other passengers." He sighs. "High speed collision with…" He nods back towards his car. "DUI."

* * *

He's on Weiss' doorstep at exactly 8:42 the next morning. With a good night's sleep and a cup of strong coffee to back him up, Vaughn will now attempt to enlist his best friend's help in what can be construed as the search for the missing half of his soul. Everything has been jagged and broken and wrong since she's been gone. It's just taken three months for him to figure out that she is everything that is sane and right. And though he knows that she deserves better, he wants nothing more than to become exactly that.

His knock is a little bit overeager and Weiss seems to agree when he appears at the front door in a t-shirt, boxers, and a very sleepy scowl. Vaughn is well-aware of the fact that he has been less than wonderful to his best friend in recent months. But the fact that Weiss seems to agree with Sydney's silent departure has been more than he could handle. Faced with the knowledge that he's probably the last person Eric Weiss wants to see on a weekend morning, Vaughn does all he can. He looks him in the eye and tells the whole truth in a matter of three words.

"I miss her."

And those three words open a forum for an entire day of conversation. Conversation about the CIA, about hockey, about their friendship, and about Sydney. But even after endless hours of talking, they find themselves back on the one problem they can't seem to solve or avoid. Weiss takes a sip of beer and traces the neck of the bottle as he questions Vaughn. "What are you going to do about it, man?"

Vaughn sighs. "I don't know. I'm just…I'm relieved that I think I've finally got my head—"

"Out of your ass." Weiss supplies neutrally.

"Right." Vaughn nods. "But at the same time, my relief is probably totally unfounded. I'm probably never going to see her again. If anyone knows how to disappear, it's Syd. Besides," he continues softly, "she might have moved on already."

Weiss watches him for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, man. She might have. But does that mean it's not worth a shot? On the miniscule chance that things work out…" Weiss trails off.

"We'd know."

The room is silent for a moment before Weiss stands up suddenly. "Alan has been in the house all day. I should take him out back. Give him some food and water. I'll be back in a few." Noticing Vaughn's forlorn expression, he adds. "We'll figure something out, man."

Vaughn nods with a grateful smile as Weiss excuses himself. Moving into the kitchen, he helps himself to another beer as his thoughts settle, once again, on Sydney. As he pries the cap from the mouth of the bottle, a sudden and obnoxious buzz causes him to nearly drop the bottle in his hand. Weiss' personal cell phone is skittering urgently across the countertop and moves in Vaughn's general direction. With a quick glance toward the patio doors, Vaughn is satisfied that Weiss won't be back in time to answer and takes it upon himself to play secretary. With a quick push of the button, he ends the phone's fit.

"This is Weiss' phone."

* * *

His shift was over hours ago.

After watching the ambulance rush the young woman to the hospital, Tom was rather satisfied to see forty-two year old Jerry Sewell be arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol. He knows he's not supposed to be emotionally-involved in such cases, but it is the first life or death incident that has occurred on young Tom Fields' watch. And he's certain now that he won't mind if it's the last.

The hospital waiting room is rather quiet and Tom shifts within the confines of the hard, plastic chair. An infomercial has been playing on a loop for the last two hours and he's exhausted his supply of dated National Geographic magazines. With an exhausted sigh, he reaches into his pocket with the hope of discovering some change for the vending machine. He's surprised, however, to find the small, forgotten, Nokia cell phone that he discovered in the glovebox of the young woman's car after the initial clean-up of her personal items.

Megan Andrews' car.

Her name had been a simple discovery. A small hobo-style bag had been recovered from the backseat of her car and her driver's license had been nestled safely behind the clear, plastic window in her wallet. Unfortunately, it seems that Megan Andrews has no family, friends, or next of kin. And while doctors and nurses can dismiss the fact with a sympathetic click of the tongue, as far as Officer Tom Fields is concerned, someone needs to be by Miss Andrews' side. Whether it's a friend, family, or Tom himself.

He considers the cell phone in his hand. He brought it with the thought that she might like to have it among her things after regaining consciousness. Standing quickly, he moves towards the nurses' station to have it placed with the rest of her personal items. But a thought occurs to him. Pressing the power button, he waits for the small screen to light up before scrolling to the phone book. Everyone keeps the most important numbers stored in their cell phones, right? He's somewhat surprised to discovered that there's just one number saved in the small Nokia phone. There's no name or form of identification. Just a number. And while it's really not his place, nor is it procedure, he hits the 'Send' button with a decisive press of his thumb.

* * *

Eric Weiss can't help but feel somewhat relieved at the reappearance of the Vaughn he once knew and loved. It really does seem as though his best friend has returned to his senses and, while he _is_ happy to have his friend back, he's also somewhat hopeful that another of Vaughn's loved ones might be persuaded to give him another chance. He knows it's a long shot. Hell, he doesn't even know where Sydney is. But with the determination Vaughn has always demonstrated with regards to matters of the heart, he wonders if the couple might still have a chance. Stepping back into the house, he heads towards the kitchen just in time to hear Vaughn speaking in a confused tone.

"Hang on a second, Officer Fields." Turning around, Vaughn sees his friend and tosses the cell phone his way before giving him a wink. "Hey, man. Do you know a Megan Andrews?"

Weiss stares for a moment as shock washes over him. Could she be ready to come back? Without a thought, he answers the phone before concern furrows his brow. "Hello? Yes, I'm her emergency contact. What seems to be the problem?"

Vaughn watches as Weiss nods slowly and grows paler by the second. When he hangs up the phone, he turns to Vaughn and motions to the couch. "You'd better have a seat."

"What's going on, man? Who's Megan Andrews?" Vaughn's eyebrows are knit in confusion as Weiss takes a breath and prepares to deliver the news.

"Megan Andrews is Sydney, man. And she's gotten herself into quite a mess."

TBC…

Thanks so much for reading! :)


	4. Sentry

**Roundabout**

**By**: Ellie (Chshalogrl)

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. That is all.

**A/N:** My sincerest apologies to all of you (especially Fair Cate). You see, I don't ever read my fics after I post them. I do my editing in a Word Processing program, post, and I'm done. So when I said that I wanted to make the POVs ambiguous...what I meant was that I don't like to lablel them "Vaughn POV" or "Syd POV". I didn't mean that I wanted all of them to run together until you don't know what is what! I finally looked over the chapters and realized that was eliminating the breaks that I've been using between different perspectives. Again, I'm sorry. But you are all troopers for dealing with it. :) I've gone back through the past three chapters and fixed the breaks. So they should be there now. Thank you for the heads up, Cate. And thank you all for the wonderful reviews you've been leaving. I've often thought of leaving because there didn't seem to be much interest in my fics. (SD-1 is the main place I post) But you guys have caused me to reconsider that move. Thanks again! Ellie

**Part 4--Sentry**

Eric Weiss has been dreading this moment for more than three months.

"You knew?!" Vaughn's voice makes a swift progression from yell to full-on roar. "How could you keep that from me? You saw what it did to me when she left! How did you come to the conclusion that it was _your_ decision to make? Damnit, Eric! This all could have been prevented. If you'd have told me where she was, maybe she wouldn't be in some backwoods hospital with God knows what kind of injuries!" A cursory glance towards a silent Weiss causes Vaughn to lower his voice slightly. "Did you know she was going to go? Before she left, I mean."

Yes, he knew. And as soon as he heard Vaughn utter the name 'Megan Andrews', he knew that the three-months long charade was over. Yet, he doesn't feel inclined to defend his actions to his friend.

"I did." He confirms with a nod.

He eyes Vaughn with a look of mild amusement and feels a surge of relief. Not that he's enjoying his best friend's anger, of course. He's just enjoying the sudden rekindling of the passion that has only ever surfaced where Sydney is concerned. The old Vaughn seems to be making a comeback. It's just too bad that one friend's comeback might be coming at the cost of another friend's wellbeing. They still don't know much about Sydney's condition, but it hadn't taken more than five minutes for Vaughn to secure a ticket on the next plane out of Los Angeles. Of course, the flight doesn't leave for several hours. Which leaves plenty of time for a thorough inquisition to occur.

Weiss is unapologetic as he begins his explanation. "She came to me. She wanted _someone_ to know that she was leaving. And she sure as hell wasn't going to tell you or Jack. She was in bad shape, Vaughn. You asked me how I could keep this secret when I saw what her leaving did to you. Yeah, well I also saw what staying would do to her. And believe me, of the two of you, she was much worse off. She was desperate to get away and, while you say it wasn't my place to keep it from you, I _know_ it wasn't my place to entrap her."

He doesn't blame Vaughn for feeling that he has, once again, been betrayed by someone he trusted. But Eric Weiss isn't compelled to apologize for his secrecy either. The kind of man Michael Vaughn has been over the past several months is not the kind of person Sydney deserves to be with. She deserved a chance to get away and make a new start. So he agreed to keep her secret. And he had…until now.

_Sydney__, are you sure? Isn't there anything else you can do? This is going to kill him."_

_She was sitting on his couch, her fingers tearing nervously at a crumpled tissue, as she looked up at him with puffy eyes. She answered in a choked whisper. "That's the problem. I don't think it will." She shook her head. "I'm not sure he'll really notice that I'm gone. Which is why it's time for me to go."_

_Eric was aghast. "But you love him. He loves you. How can you just…go?"_

_She took a breath and fixed her eyes on the tissue still in her hands. "I just…I just have to. I can't think about it. I can't think about the type of person I am if I leave. How weak I am." Her voice hitched slightly. "Or how selfish. I just know that I can't go on the way I have been. And if I don't leave now, I never will." She looked at him nervously before making her request. "I need to know I can count on you.. You know, in case of a really huge emergency. I need to know that I can contact you if something…happens."_

_Eric studied her closely. Her hunched posture, her trembling fingers, her ragged breaths. And he nodded in agreement._

_She stood slowly and smiled sadly as she approached him. "You've been a great friend." He was frozen in place as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug. "Probably my best friend since I've been back." _

_Weiss simply nodded again, not trusting his voice to respond in an appropriate manner._

_She gave him a moist kiss on the cheek and pleaded softly in his ear. "Don't tell Vaughn…please." And with a squeeze of his hands, she gave him one last smile before leaving his house…and __Los Angeles__ for good._

_Mere moments passed before Eric felt a small wad of crumpled paper trapped within his fist. Curious, he unfolded the small slip and to find two simple words written neatly in blue ink._

_Megan Andrews._

Vaughn is pacing now and Weiss feels a strong pang of concern for his best friend _and_ for Sydney. For a tiny moment, he wonders if Vaughn is right in believing that he is somehow responsible for Sydney's accident. There's a unique burden, he's discovered, in playing the confidante to two people who seem destined to love one another from afar. Just a few years before, Eric Weiss had never seen two people with such a powerful aura of bliss about them. He'd never seen two people so determined to protect the sanctity of a relationship. Which is why it's so hard for him to believe that these same two people are now locked in this tattered relationship that has them each destined for self-destruction.

"What did the officer say again?" Vaughn's voice carries a strong sense of urgency as he halts and settles himself on the edge of a recliner, his forehead in his palm.

"I already told you, Mike. He didn't give me any details. He couldn't. He just told me that she was in an accident and that they haven't released her status since she has no family there for her. The guy felt guilty and went to some extra trouble to contact us."

"Damnit! Why the hell would she run off to a place where she hasn't got anyone? What was she thinking?" A look of horror passes over his already-stricken features. "I feel like I'm completely immobile. I have to go to her, Weiss. I have to. But what if she's not okay? Or what if she's okay, but she won't even speak with me? You know, I thought that the past few months were pure hell because of Lauren." He shakes his head dazedly and looks at Weiss with sorrowful eyes. "I was right. In part. But the worst part of the past few months has been not having Sydney to come home to after every failed mission. I feel like I've just clawed my way out from under my issues with Lauren. But without Sydney, I might as well just crawl back into that hole."

"She'll be okay." Weiss' voice was firm before he continued with a shrug. "And you're right. She might not want to see you. But didn't you know that before we found out about her accident? And you were still going to take your chances. It's worth it. She needs someone with her now more than ever. That someone needs to be you."

"It _should_ be me." Vaughn mused. "But she called you. Why_you_" With anyone else, his tone might be misconstrued as snide, but Weiss knows better. He's hurt.

Weiss pauses for a moment to consider the question before he offers the only answer he can think of. "Because she doesn't love me."

* * *

The plane holds the stenches of stale air and vomit. It might just be him though. Since hearing the news of Sydney's accident, he's been fighting a rather stubborn bout of nausea and a sour taste tinges his taste buds as he takes a deep breath in preparation for what will likely be the longest flight of his life. The elderly woman seated next to him is knitting and her sharp little elbows keep finding their way into his ribs. The young family across the aisle prompts a smile at first glance. But when the blonde toddler starts screeching at the building pressure in her ears, he begins to wish he was flying first class. After refusing a complimentary beverage from a young and wide-eyed flight attendant, he rests his head back against the vinyl seat. Turning his face towards the hissing gusts of air from above, he lets his eyes fall shut in attempt to collect his thoughts under the pretense of taking a nap.

He doesn't have a plan. Although Weiss had made a valiant attempt, the small-town hospital hadn't been willing to release any records over the phone, a measure Vaughn would have appreciated had it been under any other circumstances. Armed with this lack of knowledge, he finds that his mind is leaping to all sorts of gruesome assumptions with regards to Sydney's physical condition, and in an attempt to maintain his sanity for the short duration of his flight, he tries to reflect on the more positive occasions of his time with Sydney. Unfortunately, the positive soon succumb to the more recent negative which forces him to face the error of his ways for the first time since she left.

_The call came just as he was getting out of the shower. Another lead. If he wanted to find Lauren, he needed to move now. After a split-second of hesitation, he was hastily tossing clothes into a small suitcase. Lauren had succeeded not only in making his life a living hell, but also in making it one massive lie. And he'd be damned if he was going to let her get away. _

_A quick call to the airport and he was all set. His favorite suit was left hanging in the closet and the wrapped gift was forgotten on the bed. Grabbing his favorite lather jacket from off its hanger, he stomped hurriedly down the short hallway of the apartment and found __Sydney__ waiting at the other end. _

_"Vaughn, where are you going?" Her initial look of excitement was quickly clouded with confusion. She certainly looked stunning tonight. The wine-colored dress spilled over her curves while her dark hair was up and away from her face for the occasion. Seeing how much effort she'd put into her appearance caused him to almost change his mind. Almost._

_"I just spoke with a contact in __Zurich__. We've got another lead. We have to move now."_

_"I thought we had plans. We haven't spent an evening together in… Can't they send someone else?" _

_The hurt in her voice was a stab to his conscience. Could they send someone else? Probably. But thoughts of Lauren helped him to quickly regain his focus. "I'm going, __Sydney__. I have to go. I'll be back in a few days. I'll see you soon."_

_The front door slammed behind him and he stopped just outside as he felt a pang of regret. But it was gone as quickly as it arrived. There would be other birthdays. They could celebrate together next year._

The sight of absolute devastation he'd seen on Sydney's face still wounds him and his ignorance of their terse situation now seems ridiculous. He's not quite sure how he went from being a man grateful for every moment spent with the woman he loves, to becoming a man with enough false bravado to believe that any one day with her was less than a great gift. It's only through the clarity of hindsight that he realizes how much he's hurt Sydney and he discovers that he won't blame her if she can't forgive him.

He's not sure how to forgive himself.

* * *

It had taken several tries, but he'd finally gotten through.

After hours of sitting in the hospital waiting room on the behalf of Megan Andrews, Officer Tom Fields had finally gotten in touch with an Eric Weiss in Los Angeles. He hadn't been able to offer much in the way of Ms. Andrews' condition, but he felt some strange sense of relief at the fact that someone would be arriving at the young woman's bedside within a matter of hours.

It's been five hours since he made the phone call and though he's already gone above and beyond the call of duty, he finds himself still seated in a straight-backed waiting room chair. Which he is quite sure has caused some sort of permanent damage to his lower back. At some point within the past several hours, someone had secured the remote control and changed the channel. He's now watching the obnoxious antics of several poorly-animated cartoon characters. Still, he can't help but feel that he's on a mission to stand guard for young woman who seems to be very alone in the world.

Turning an eye towards the nurses' station just down the hallway, Tom suddenly spots a harried-looking man as he rushes towards the desk and speaks to the young receptionist. Standing and moving down the short hallway, he can't help but eavesdrop on the quiet conversation. Upon hearing the name 'Megan Andrews', Tom takes an appraising look at the man who has arrived to relieve him of his duties and surmises him to be a romantic interest. His unkempt appearance and sleep-deprived eyes radiate emit the frantic worry of a lover rather than the familial concern of a brother or cousin. This is clearly a man whose entire world has been threatened and, as Tom slips quietly towards the hospital exit, he prays that all will be restored to Megan Andrews and this man who clearly loves her.

* * *

Dread always pools in the pit of Shayna Collins' stomach just before she arrives for her weekly shift at the hospital. Born to one of the more affluent families in the Mendocino area, Shayna's parents had recently decided that their sixteen-year old daughter should be giving back to her community instead of cruising the neighborhood in her compact convertible. The result of her parents' sudden bout of generosity has been more than two months of loud flower arrangements, questionable meal trays, and an antiseptic scent that Shayna can't seem to scrub from her hair.

While television is always portraying hospitals as fast-paced hubs of constant live-saving efforts, most of the patients at Mendocino Coast District Hospital are either senior citizens in need of an antacid or flushed young women who leave with newborn babies. She's working the reception desk skimming her daily roster of sorts, Shayna recognizes most of the names and notes that her assertions are, for the most part, correct. But as she pans the list, she comes across a name that she hasn't seen on any of her previous shifts.

"Megan Andrews?"

The male voice sounds ragged around the edges as it speaks the very name Shayna is reading from her clipboard. The synchronicity of his voice with her thoughts is startling and causes Shayna's to jump slightly before she lets her gaze settle on the sorry looking gentleman on the other side of the front desk. She clears her throat quietly. "Excuse me?"

"I'm looking for Megan Andrews. She was…I think it was a car accident. Late last night."

With a quick scan of the paperwork in front of her, Shayna nods and tugs shyly at the end of her thick, blonde braid. "I need to get Dr. Freeman to speak with you. He's been treating Ms. Andrews. It will be just a moment." Shayna is turning to go in search of the doctor when she hears the man's strained voice. "Miss?"

She throws a questioning glance over her shoulder at him.

"Can you tell me anything? I just…I don't know anything and I flew all the way up here. I just need to know if she's—"

Shayna freezes at the obvious desperation laced in the man's voice before she turns back with a sympathetic shrug. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not allowed to release any information. I'm just a volunteer. And, even if I was, I just came on a little while ago." She bites lightly on her bottom lip before turning and heading back down the hallway.

She hates this job for a lot of reasons. But moments like this one have just topped the list.

* * *

He has to speak with a doctor before he's allowed to see her. The measure is a needless one and Vaughn is certain that he's not the first one to feel this way. He focuses on everything _except_ the doctor's words as he briefs Vaughn on Sydney's condition. The doctor's Adam's apple bobs buoyantly as he speaks of a head injury. Vaughn listens to the furious scratching of the ballpoint pen as the man jots a note on his clipboard and mentions something about cracked ribs. The doctor is recounting a surgical procedure having to do with Sydney's spleen when Vaughn notices a tiny rust-colored stain on the sleeve of the man's white coat. He wonders if it's blood.

After a seemingly endless explanation of Sydney's current condition, Vaughn is finally taken to an open door at the end of a hallway. The teenaged girl who has escorted him, Shawna or Shayna or something along that line, turns to him with a timid smile. "She's sedated so she should be asleep for the next several hours."

Vaughn nods wordlessly, but can't help the sense of relief that flows through him. If she's asleep, she can't kick him out. Which means that he has some time to be with her, to touch her, to make sure she's really okay. He takes a hesitant step through the doorway and suddenly she is there. She is right in front of him, surrounded by white linens. She's just a few steps away and the reality of the past few months suddenly seems preposterous. How could he ever have felt that he belonged anywhere but here? With her.The room is nearly silent as a monitor blips quietly over Sydney's soft breaths. He doesn't remember the details of her ailments or injuries. He just knows that the doctor was clear in his declaration that Megan Andrews is expected to make a full recovery.

And now he can breathe.

An armless chair rests against the wall and its wooden legs scrape against the tiled floor as he drags it to her side. To say that she is beautiful is a ridiculous attempt to describe what he feels as he looks at her. Her hair is shorter and there is a hint of red in its hue. He knows that the bulk of her injuries rest beneath the coarse, white blanket that is tucked around her frame. But there are deep, violet bruises that mar her forehead and spread across her left cheekbone. He can see where her lip was split thanks to a tiny line of dried blood. Upon further inspection, he notices that she's thin. Not gaunt, but thin. And he knows without a doubt that she has been skipping meals…a bad habit he had once remedied during their time together.

_Want some?" The box of pizza was positioned between them and he chuckled as long strands of cheese dangled from the offered slice._

_"No thanks." Her reply was a distracted one and she didn't even look his way as she made another mark on the report in front of her._

_"Syd."__ He scolded her. "You have to eat. Terrorists and crime syndicates are always going to be there…unfortunately." He amended his words when she raised her eyebrows skeptically. "You have to eat, __Sydney__. I always worry about you when you get wrapped up in work like this. I'm afraid you'll forget to eat…or shower…for days on end."_

_A small smile flickered on her features and, with a resigned sigh, she dropped her pen and accepted the hot slice of pizza. She burned her tongue with the first mouthful before mumbling an unintelligible "Delicious."_

_"See how easy it is? Sometimes food is even downright enjoyable." He teased as he plucked a piece of pepperoni from her piece._

_"I don't have to worry about taking care of myself." She reasoned good-naturedly. "I've got you to do it for me."_

Suddenly, he's no longer nervous. This is what he does. He takes care of her. And he's going to make sure she's taken care of now, whether she wants him to or not. He scoots his chair even closer to the head of her bed and is extremely careful about taking her hand into his. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he begins speaking words that are meant for her ears only.

"Hey, Sydney. Or should I say Megan? It's me. Vaughn. I know I'm probably the last person you're expecting to see. Probably the last person you want to see, but I had to come. I had to be here, Syd, because I've let you down and disappointed you in so many other ways. And I was going to try to find you even before I found out that you got yourself into this mess. You nearly gave me a heart attack. You know I can't handle seeing you hurt." He paused to revel in the irony of his statement. "I know that's probably hard for you to believe considering the fact that I'm the one responsible for most of your recent pain. But God, Syd. You have to believe me when I say that I understand why you left. I do. I'm selfish and a fool. I made you believe that you aren't the most important thing in the world to me and that's a lie. I'm sorry, Syd." Lowering his lips to her hand, he brushes them across her knuckles and continues his one-sided conversation.

Michael Vaughn remembers the exact time and date of the last time he truly cried. Slouched against the charred frame of a burned-out apartment after being told his girlfriend had perished in the flames. Now, as unshed tears burn and flood his tired eyes, it seems only appropriate that he always seems to have a reservoir of tears to be shed especially for Sydney Bristow.

TBC…

Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think!


	5. Impasse

**Roundabout**

**A/N:** So here's the thing. As I've mentioned before, this fic was only supposed to be six parts. But after editing and attempting to flesh out this chapter, it became two clearly separate chapters. So we're going to go seven parts instead of six. This chapter is going to take us back to the heart of things: the S/V relationship. Thanks so much for reading. Hope you enjoy!

Part 5—Impasse

It wasn't love at first sight.

He knows that this notion of knowing—of feeling—when you've met the right person is compelling to many. In fact, it's quite a compelling notion to him as well, but it's not the way he would describe his first encounter with Sydney. Some might try to justify a lack of initial passion in their relationships: the atmosphere was wrong, he was having a bad day, _she_ was having a bad day, they just didn't _know_ each other. For Sydney and Vaughn, all of these excuses had been true.

_"Who is this woman?" Vaughn hissed to Weiss as they stood just outside the door to the small conference room._

_"You heard what Devlin said. She's looking to become a double. I wouldn't suggest screwing this up," Weiss responded dryly._

_"Did anyone, I don't know, corroborate this woman's story before letting her in here?" Vaughn jerked a thumb back toward the conference room door. "That woman is certifiable. I'm telling you…"_

_The click of the door handle sounded from behind them and both men turned as the door opened. The young woman stepped into the hallway and smiled tersely before flinching at the pain of her swollen jaw. "I'm finished."_

_Vaughn offered a brusque smile in return and nodded. "Fine. Mr. Weiss will show you to my office and I'll take care of your statement."_

_Weiss gestured down the hallway, but the woman paused. "Mr. Vaughn?"_

_Vaughn turned and faced the unscrupulous sight of her matted red hair and swollen mouth. "Yes?"_

_"I wouldn't call the asylum. Not yet anyway."_

His mother used to say that given an hour, he could solve the world's problems.

What she was really doing was implying the intensity of his analytical side; his love for solitude and his penchant for self-reflection and analysis. Considering the montage of Sydney that has been running through his mind for the past several hours; he supposes his mother has always been right.

He spent years wondering when he fell in love with her, as though there was one right answer. It's only now, thanks to these few hours of quiet, that he understands.

He's still falling.

* * *

Her hand is cold in his.

Her hands were always cold. He smiles briefly when he recalls this seemingly trivial fact as her fingers rest lightly against his palm. It's been five hours. Five hours and twenty-seven minutes of sitting awkwardly on the edge of the armless chair as a kink works its way into the strained muscles of his back. Five hours of reacquainting his fingertips with the satin-smooth strands of her hair. Of brushing her bruised cheekbones with tentative knuckles and pressing kisses to the back of her hand. It's taken five hours for every apology, confession, and regret to tumble right out into the open only to fall upon deaf ears.

He knows that she could wake up at any moment. He hopes that she'll wake up at any moment. But he's also terrified by the prospect of looking her in the eye for the first time in months. As long as she is resting quietly; her hair falling across the pillowcase with her lashes brushing against her cheekbones, he is able to pretend. He can remove himself—and Sydney—from the confines of this hospital room. With his fingers wrapped securely around her cool hand, he can transport them to another place or even another time; lounging in bed on a lazy Saturday morning, strolling the streets of Westwood while munching on cookies from Diddy Riese, or telling jokes to pass the time as they sit on a gridlocked freeway. They're the pastimes that had never seemed particularly spectacular; even after all they had gone through to be together. Funnily enough, they're the pastimes that cause his throat to tighten and his soul to throb. The special occasions aren't the moments he misses. No, it's the everydayness of their relationship that he craves.

He finds himself kneading at the tension in his forehead again and he quickly drops the offending hand to his knee. He's been doing that a lot lately; trying to rub the stress away. It's only now that he realizes just how much those efforts have been in vain. There's only one thing in the world that has ever been able to relax the rigidity with which he has always carried himself. Ironically, she's also the most common reason for it too.

A tiny sigh suddenly escapes her lips and would go unnoticed if not for the rustle of the stiff hospital bed linens. Her eyelids are fluttering and her lips are twitching slightly as she shifts almost imperceptibly. She's coming around.

He breathes.

* * *

The first thing she is aware of is the intense glow of the fluorescent light hanging directly overhead. It burns through her heavy eyelids and prompts her to shift slightly from the discomfort of its brightness. It's only now that she notices the feel of her hand being held by another and the comforting hum of a man's voice speaking unintelligible words. She can't for the life of her figure out where she is and her first thought is that she's landed herself in some kind of interrogation room. But then, her interrogators weren't usually inclined to cradle her hand this gently. And they had certainly never whispered such reassurances in her ear.

With a mysterious burst of stubborn resolve, she is forcing her eyes to open through the density of the groggy haze that threatens to smother her. The vivid panel of light pierces her vision with blackness for a short moment before colors begin to fill the objects in her eyeline. Ever the conscientious spy, she is immediately assessing her surroundings. A generically tan ceiling. The infuriating beep of a heartbeat—presumably her own. A needle taped into the back of her hand.

A small yet tiresome movement allows her to survey the environment to her right where her gaze settles curiously on the man who continues to cradle her hand in his. His face is nothing if not familiar and beloved. Armed with the knowledge that Vaughn is here to watch over her, she offers a tired sigh and allows her eyes to fall shut once again.

Suddenly his voice is low and close while his even breaths puff warmth against her cheek. She can't understand anything beyond the rumble of his voice, but she can sense his current state of neediness. She doesn't know where she is or why, but she gives his hand a squeeze. He's here. He's here with her which means that she's okay.

Everything else can wait.

* * *

Her eyes are the same.

Perhaps a bit puffy and more than a little bit disoriented. But they are the same warm shade of brown and they are honoring him with a trusting glance. Perhaps this woman is Megan Andrews. But these eyes belong Sydney Bristow, there's no doubt in his mind. A veil of confusion hangs over her features as she eyes him with obvious curiosity about her surroundings. He gives her hand the gentlest of squeezes in an effort to assure her that she is okay and smiles when he sees her relax into her pillow. He doesn't even realize that he's already unleashed a string of soothing words until he sees Sydney heave a small sigh and close her eyes. He continues his murmurs for several moments, unsure whose fears they're meant to assuage.

A nurse is almost silent in her entrance and Vaughn is startled by her sudden appearance at Sydney's side.

"Sorry," She apologizes sheepishly as she skims Sydney's chart.

Vaughn dismisses her apology with a shake of his head. "How's she doing? I mean, she was awake for a minute or two, but she went back to sleep."

The nurse nods, "The sedative is wearing off. She should wake up and feel more like herself in a couple of hours." Smiling at the man who is so obviously devoted to the young woman, she makes her exit as discreet as her entrance.

Feeling the persistent kink in his back once again, he shifts slightly in his chair and attempts to find a more relaxing position. Making sure to keep Sydney's hand in his, Vaughn lowers his head to the mattress to rest his eyes.

Thirty seconds later, they're breathing in unison.

The nurse was right.

Vaughn had hoped against hope that Sydney's seeming acceptance of his presence was an indicator that she was happy to see him. And even now, when he feels a hand on his head, he smiles in his sleep as he remembers Sydney's old habit of playing with his hair.

"Syd," he mumbles as he lifts his head from the mattress. He reaches up to catch her hand in his and he's surprised to feel her yank her fingers from his grasp. Fixing his eyes on her fully-conscious face, he fights the urge to cringe.

She is eyeing him with some mixture of confusion, disgust, and hurt. She's managed to scoot her way towards the far edge of the bed and her arms are crossed over her chest in a defiant gesture. She looks exhausted. And not from her physical injuries.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice is sharp and it cuts cleanly.

He is shaking his head as all of the wrong words come to mind. "I had to come, Syd. How long have you been awake?"

"Awhile," she whispers. "And don't call me that."

Despite her withdrawn manner, he finds himself reaching for her hand only to have her jerk it away yet again. He nods in acceptance of the physical distance she is forcing and steeples his hands on the bedside as he begins another explanation.

"I'm sorry, Sydney. I want to be able to describe to you how much I've missed you, how much I've _needed_ you these past few months." His anguish is apparent in his rippled tone of voice and he is suddenly aware of just how horrible his life has been without Sydney. "I let you down. The fact that you felt the need to disappear just proves my failure. You are everything good and beautiful in my life. Without you…"

He sees her body shake slightly from the corner of his eye and glances up to meet her tearful gaze. A short sob rattles her fragile frame and, despite her tears, she burns him with her angry glare.

"Get out."

"Sydney…" He knows his attempts are in vain, but he can't bring himself to stop trying.

"I don't know what the hell you were expecting me to do, but we obviously aren't on the same page here." She pauses and closes her eyes before grinding out the same two words. "Get out."

The quiet nurse chooses this moment to enter the room in her stealthy manner and she smiles upon seeing the conscious Sydney.

Her voice is chirpy and she pats Sydney on the arm. "He's been so worried. He hasn't moved from your side all day."

"I bet," Sydney remarks dryly.

"See?" The nurse turns her smile towards Vaughn. "I told you she would be more like her old self after some rest."

"Yeah," Vaughn agreed with a tight smile as he stands and moves away from the bed. "You were right."

The door doesn't make a sound as falls to a close behind him.

* * *

She feels numb. This is funny considering that Michael Vaughn's presence had always goaded her body into sensory-overload. Still, she is filled with a numbing ache.

The doctor says she can go home in the morning, which is a definite relief. She had mentioned her concern for Quentin to one of the nurses during an exam and she had assured Sydney that she would contact one of Sydney's neighbors to look after the dog until she returned. Sydney appreciates the gesture, but she's glad that such assistance won't be necessary. The knowledge that she will be able to resume her comfortable life; to take care of her dog, go back to work, walk along the beach, it's all a relief to her. But a small part of her can't help but wonder if Vaughn's brief presence will ruin the sanctity of her small world.

The bedside telephone ring is shrill and deafening, but the friendly voice at the other end of the line is a welcome sound.

"How're you feeling?"

"Eric," she smiles at the casual familiarity with which they interact. "I've been better."

"I bet. You're supposed to stay _between_ the lines on the road, Syd."

"Fifteen years of driving, you'd think I'd have learned," she responds.

"Anyone special stop by?" If there's one thing Eric Weiss has never been good at, it's beating around the bush.

Sydney rolls her eyes at his implication, "So you gave me up, huh?" She finds herself tracing the rough texture of the knit-blanket spread over her lap.

The snorting sound is almost comical. "Well, the phone call from the police officer didn't help me in my secrecy. Especially when Vaughn answered."

Sydney manages a small chuckle at Weiss' wry tone, but she sobers at his seriousness when he continues.

"Syd, you should know that he came to me before we got the call. He wanted me to help him find you. He's been making his own life a living hell since you've been gone. He was finally ready to pull his life back together. For you."

There's nothing but the fizzy sound of static for several moments.

"He came because he thought I was going to die."

"No," Weiss corrected her. "He came because he wanted you to live."

TBC…


	6. Reprieve

**Part 6—Reprieve**

The cab's interior smells like trees, which isn't altogether inappropriate in a town bordered by California Redwoods.

Following a long and detailed conversation with her doctor, 'Megan Andrews' has been officially released from the hospital and is an anxious passenger in one of the three cabs that make up Fort Bragg's fleet. Clad in a cheap, terry sweatsuit provided by one of the friendlier nurses, she clutches a plastic bag of personal belongings while staring fixedly as the small, gray town passes through her window. The jarring of a pothole finds her hissing suddenly at the ache near her jawline and she lifts a hand to the bruises that still cloud her skin. Although the swelling has gone down in the past twenty-four hours, she is well-aware that she's not looking her best. She's not feeling her best either.

To say that she is confused is a comical understatement. Vaughn's saddened departure has raised all kinds of questions about the decisions she is making for herself. And her phone conversation with Weiss, though it lifted her spirits, has raised even more doubts. But every time she starts to feel guilty for dismissing Vaughn, she just needs to remember what life was like just a few months before. The memories never fail to bring the pain bubbling to the surface.

Why should she care if he was hurting? Hadn't he hurt her? She doesn't owe him anything. Not compassion and certainly not any sympathy. She nods in confirmation of her belief that she was justified in forcing him to leave.

But why doesn't she feel any better? Why is she focusing on those vague memories of taking comfort in Vaughn's presence at her bedside? That was before regaining full-awareness of her surroundings, she reasons. That was before she regained her clarity of mind. But nothing could erase or alter the fact that, at first sight of him, she had wanted nothing more than to curl up in his arms where she could safely rest. After all of the pain he has caused her, after all of the tears, how could he still make her feel so protected?

It doesn't matter now. She had taken care of things quite effectively when she had truly stirred from her state of sedation. Brushing her fingertips over his face and hair had been nothing more than an instinctive reaction to seeing him asleep at her side. It hadn't meant anything. And neither had his words. All of the apologies and explanations in the world couldn't make up for the neglect she had suffered. He owed her more than words.

Right?

Dropping her head against the back of her seat in defeat, her careful breaths are disrupted when the cab comes to a sudden jerking stop. Sydney is thrown forward only to flinch when her seatbelt locks her in place and the sudden pressure on her bandaged ribcage leaves her breathless. Irritated, she throws an angry glare toward the driver through his rearview mirror and meets his questioning gaze as he confirms, "This way, right?"

Sydney considers his question for a moment and eyes the hemp bracelets stacked up his tanned wrists. What would this long-haired man say if she directed him to a certain address in the middle of Los Angeles? The temptation, however foolish, is great.

Another moment and Sydney nods at him.

"That's the way."

The high-pitched squeak of the cab's brakes jerks Sydney from her thoughts of Vaughn. With a small smile she tucks some bills in the driver's rough palm, watches the cab pull away from the curb, and then stands as if rooted to the sidewalk.

Thanks to the unsolicited appearance of Michael Vaughn, everything she has known for the past three months has been hurled into a tailspin and the life that she's created feels as manufactured as she knows it is. A breeze gently stirs the air and causes Sydney to shiver beneath the fine spray of ocean mist. It's only been about 36 hours since she left for that ill-fated evening drive, but it feels as though she's experienced a lifetime's worth of second-guesses and indecision since then.

Pushing her way through the rusty front gate, she cringes when it groans on its hinges once again. Not for the first time, she vows to have it fixed and, eager to get Quentin fed and watered, she picks up the pace towards the front door with her keys dangling from her hand. In a true gesture of inconvenience, her key is reluctant to fit into the lock and is even less willing to come back out once she has opened the door. After several insistent pulls on the stubborn object and a frustrated groan, she gives up and leaves the door hanging open with the key still in the lock. The stuffy house could use the crisp ocean air anyway.

The living room and kitchen are in a familiar state of disarray. Her bulky knit blanket hangs over the arm of the couch while Faulkner is opened to the title page on her coffee table. Dirty dishes are stacked haphazardly near the sink and Sydney sighs when she sees that Quentin's food and water bowls have been licked clean. These few steps carry her from one end of the house to the other and it doesn't take more than a few seconds for her to notice the absence of jingling dog-tags and trotting paws.

"Quentin? I'm home, sweetie!"

The low hum of a passing car is her only response and she can't hold back a frustrated groan.

Making her way back toward the front of the house, Sydney sinks into the overstuffed haven of her couch and sighs tiredly. The hospital must have called one of her neighbors to take care of Quentin. As much as she appreciates the generous spirit of her small neighborhood, traipsing down the street in search of her dog is the last thing she wants to do.

"Damnit," she whispers as she lets her head fall back against the back of the couch. After allowing herself a much-needed deep breath, she stands to dig her phone book out of a long-forgotten drawer, and begins thumbing through the pages.

She's dialing the number of her nearest neighbor when a series of excited barks causes her to freeze. She hears the distinct squawk of the gate and is moving to greet her visitor when a blur of golden fur comes hurtling through the still-open front door. The dog is immediately on her hind legs, jumping all over Sydney, and nearly knocking her off of her feet in all of the excitement. Although Sydney catches herself, she is thrown off-balance and finds herself awkwardly sidestepping before a pair of hands manages to steady her. Turning her attention away from the excited Retriever, she looks up, expecting to see one of her neighbors.

She's sorely mistaken.

From the floor up, her eyes meet brown leather, blue denim, and the caramel-colored suede that she used to love so much. With a frown, she watches with irritation as Michael Vaughn steps back and easily jimmies the stubborn key from the lock before handing it to her with a soft murmur, "Looks like the swelling has gone down."

Sydney can feel her face burning beneath the intimate scrutiny of his gaze and she grows uncomfortable at the familiarity with which he studies her. Snatching the key from his outstretched hand, she blurts, "What are you doing here?"

"One of the nurses mentioned to me that you were concerned about 'the dog'," he shrugs. "I said I'd take care of it."

"You didn't need to do that. It wasn't your place," she presses her lips together. "It's not your job anymore."

Vaughn lets his frustration slip through the cracks for just a moment, "You know a simple thank-you would suffice."

She stares at him incredulously, "Tell me you aren't going to stand there and imply that I'm indebted to you now. Because I _know_ you're not that dense." She gestures toward Quentin, "I didn't ask you to do this! I don't owe you anything, Vaughn."

It never takes long for her fury to simmer. Or for the tears to fall.

"Sydney," he starts.

"In fact," she cuts him off, "I think _you_ owe me. Those were six perfectly good months that I wasted pining over a fiancé who would rather chase his traitorous ex-wife than spend time with me," she grates out before choking back a sob. "Can you do that, Vaughn? Can you give those months back?"

Vaughn is stunned as he listens to her outburst and his mouth opens as though he wants to respond, but instead he just shakes his head.

"I didn't think so," Sydney says softly as she tries in vain to keep her emotions in check.

Vaughn tries again,"That's not—I mean, you can't really believe that. You can't honestly think that I wasn't wishing for you whenever I was on one of those trips."

"I can, Vaughn. And I do." As quickly as they appeared, her tears have subsided and she stares at him for several steady moments. "Thank you." Her words are slow and deliberate. "You can show yourself out."

He doesn't budge and his eyes are wide with this disbelief, "God, Sydney. You really think that I stopped loving you? That I could ever even be capable of not loving you?" His eyes are shining with sadness and tears as he continues to shake his head in shock.

The sight is almost enough to break Sydney down, but she squares her shoulders and bravely stands her ground, "I think you should leave, Vaughn."

He glances up in surprise before answering firmly, "No."

Her rigid posture falters and she watches him with frightened eyes, "Excuse me?"

"I said no," he repeats before pausing. "Look, you're right. You don't owe me a thing. There's no excuse for the way I treated you for all of those months. There's no possible way I can make up for that lost time. But I came for you. And I can't leave until I've had the chance to talk to you. There are things I _need_ to say. After I've said them, if you feel the same way, I'll leave you to your life as Megan Andrews—or whoever you want to be. I just have to get some things off my chest and I have a feeling that you need to do the same."

The tinkling sounds of the wind chimes fill the air of silence that stands between them. Sydney faces him with a guarded expression and studies his hopeful countenance as he awaits her response. It's the same face she left behind in Los Angeles; the face of the man who so easily relegated her to the backburner. But there's a subtle change in him; in the way he's looking at her now. She squints slightly and looks more closely at the earnestness in his eyes. His stare speaks volumes and she knows that heated words are useless. She suddenly feels something warm and wet on her fingers, and she glances down to see Quentin licking her hand in a plea for attention.

Without a sound, Sydney reaches for the leash still attached to the dog's collar and brushes by Vaughn as he stands in the doorway. She knows that Quentin has just been on a walk, but she has an inkling that she's going to need a buffer of some sort, and one of the canine variety is better than none at all. With a quick glance backward, Sydney nods in the direction of the coastline, "Quentin and I always head to the beach in the evenings. We can walk and talk."

The rustic beaches of Northern California look nothing like the manicured sands of the Southern California coast, but Sydney has always considered this a good thing; yet another change from the life she knew in Los Angeles. The dark and jagged coastline of Fort Bragg can be haunting and ominous, but it is also picturesque and perfect for someone who needs to escape.

Sydney knows these shores well.

Vaughn watches silently and follows Sydney's lead as she removes her shoes when they reach the loose spread of sand. He smiles slightly when she allows Quentin to romp loudly after a flock of seagulls, but he quickly sobers when he notices that her expectant gaze is suddenly fixed on him. The beach, littered with rough hunks of driftwood and slippery stalks of kelp, stretches for nearly a mile from this point and they begin walking near the edge of the water with the wet sand squeaking beneath their feet and the waves lapping playfully at their numbed toes. With Quentin scampering in the lead, Vaughn takes a moment steady his emotions, and concentrates on the constant wash and retreat of the rolling surf before gathering the courage to make the first move. He's surprised however when he hears Sydney take a breath and beat him to it.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He nods, "Of course."

She slows her stride and turns toward him, lifting a hand to shield her eyes against the sinking sun, "Where's Lauren?"

Vaughn pauses before responding truthfully, "I don't know." He shrugs, "Does it matter?"

Sydney drops her hand and starts walking once again. "I don't know, Vaughn. Does it?"

He shakes his head, "Not anymore."

Sydney watches as he bends down to pull a smooth stick from the sand. With a slight grunt of effort, he heaves it down the beach and chuckles as Quentin goes sprinting after it. She can't help but smile.

He dusts off his hands before turning back towards her. "I never stopped loving you, Sydney. All those months," he shakes his head guiltily. "That's what I regret most. That I actually made you believe I stopped loving you." He takes a breath and releases it slowly. Lifting his sorrowful eyes to hers, he shrugs, "I can't change the mistakes I made. God, I wish I could. I can't even tell you how much I wish I could take it all back. But all I can do is attempt to explain. And even that will never be enough, but it's all I can offer."

"It might not be enough," Sydney starts, "but I think I need to hear it."

Vaughn nods, "There really isn't any complex reasoning for my actions. But the first thing you need to know is that I've always looked at my life as a kind of novel or book."

"A bestseller, no doubt." Sydney cuts in lightly.

Vaughn glances at her in amusement, "Different parts of my life are the different chapters. Life with my dad, when my dad died, starting with the CIA." He shrugs, "You get the picture. And because of this, I felt that I couldn't move beyond Lauren until I had closed that particular chapter of my life. I needed to be completely free of her." He glances back towards her, "So that I could be good enough for you."

The air is cooling as the sun drops nearer to the horizon and Sydney crosses her arms over her chest. "I've heard this before," she states wryly. "You thought you were doing us a favor." She shakes her head and bites her lip, "But you left me."

The hurt is evident in her voice and he prays she won't start to cry again. Clenching his fists in anger, he continues, "I _hate_ that woman, Sydney. Not just because she deceived me, but also because she made me feel _guilty_ for loving you. She made me feel bad about the best thing I've had in my life. And I wanted her to pay for that. Because I wasn't going to be good enough for you until I did."

Sydney has stopped once again and she is facing him with tears in her eyes and a trembling jaw. "You left me on my birthday," she reminds in a strained whisper. "You promised me that you would take me to dinner and that we could start talking about the wedding plans. But you went after her."

Vaughn stands stunned as he absorbs the crestfallen expression on her face. "That was it, wasn't it?"

"What?" She quickly swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"That was when you decided to leave."

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. She starts walking and he has his answer.

He decides to turn the tables.

"Can I ask _you_ a question?"

She pauses and waits for him to catch up before she nods.

"Why'd you change your name? Were you really _that_ afraid that I would find you?"

He's watching her closely to gauge her reaction, but he's caught off guard when she turns and suddenly sinks heavily to the ground. She pulls her knees toward her chest and squints up at him. "At first it seemed like it was just habit. I didn't even realize that it was pointless to hide behind an alias until it was too late." With a quick glance back down at her feet in the sand, she mumbles, "And I think a small part of me was wishing that there _was_ a need for it. I wanted to believe that you would come looking for me, but I didn't want you to find me. Because I knew that if you did, I would cave."

She pauses and he takes the opportunity to lower himself to the dry patch of sand at her side. A sharp series of barks suddenly erupt through the air and they both shoot startled looks toward Quentin as she leaps through the waves. Sydney smiles and shakes her head when she witnesses her dog's antics.

"You know, the longer I lived as Megan Andrews, the more I realized why it was so easy to become her." She is quiet for a moment as she collects her thoughts. He watches as she trails her hands through the sand and allows the grains to sift between her fingertips. She sighs, "Growing up, I didn't have a clear idea of who I was. I don't think anyone does when they're young. But with my mom and my dad," she trails off, "I was especially lost. I thought that I had discovered my calling when I started with SD-6. We both know how that turned out," she remarks wryly. "And leading the double-life with all of the outfits and aliases wasn't so conducive to a clear sense of self. Being with you was really one of the few times that I felt that I was my own person. When I left, I realized that I didn't know how to be me without you. That's a pretty terrifying revelation."

She turns to him with a solemn look and shrugs a shoulder, "It was easier to be someone different than to face the fact that I don't know who the hell Sydney really is."

Vaughn turns to take a long look at her conflicted profile. The gusty breeze is tossing auburn strands up and about and across her face, and the bruises are still fairly dark against her skin, but the frown of frustration is obvious to him. Her hands still skitter across the sand at her sides and he notices the subtle shiver that ripples over her skin only to leave goosebumps in its wake. He continues to watch her for just a second before he bravely reaches out to steady one of her unruly hands. He halfway expects her to cower as though she's been burned. Instead, she simply gives him a look of surprise at the contact, but she seems to be willing to listen to what he has to say.

"I don't remember a lot of the past year. Most of it is one huge blur of long flights and failed attempts to find Lauren. But I do remember a few specific moments." He gives her hand a squeeze before letting go. "The times I spent with you were the times that got me from Point A to Point B, Syd. I know that I didn't tell you this, maybe that was my first mistake, but coming home to you after every failed mission was the one thing I could depend on." He rubs his eyes before continuing in a strained whisper, "I actually blamed you when you first left—I actually thought that you were being selfish. But the weeks turned into months and your ring was still sitting on the nightstand. I couldn't bring myself to move it. I couldn't move your clothes." He laughs bitterly, "I couldn't arrange those damned pillows of yours. And I came home to an empty house after every failed mission."

He stops for a moment and chances a glance over at Sydney. Her eyes are fixed her lap and her shoulders are shaking just the slightest bit. He can feel the horror etched painfully into his features when she suddenly chokes back a sob and turns toward him to utter, "I don't need you, Vaughn." She shakes her head vigorously as she sniffles quietly, "I don't need anyone. I've been doing just fine here by myself."

"I know that," he responds softly. "I'm not here because _you_ need me."

Sydney cries softly as she combs a hand through her windblown hair, "Eric told me that you came to him before you heard about the accident. He said that you wanted him to help you look for me."

Vaughn nods wordlessly.

"Why? What made you decide to come after me _now_? Did you just decide you missed having someone around the house? In your bed?"

"God, Sydney! No!" He frowns at her as he thinks of a way to verbalize his thoughts. He starts over, "I was in Nice the other night." He watches as she lifts her eyebrows before he explains, "Another failed mission."

She gives a tearful nod in understanding and allows him to continue.

"Anyway, while I was there, I saw this man. He was about my age, looked something like me, and he was with his wife and son. I found myself just watching them, just watching this family. And I started to think how that could have been us. If I hadn't spent so much time trying to close this old chapter of my life, I could have already started a new chapter with you. We could be married and having a baby. And then I remembered something you told me once. You said that in all of history's great romances, there comes a test. And sometimes that test separates the two for awhile. You said that it's when they find their way back to one another that they know. It's truly true love."

He nods, "And you were right." He watches another shiver pass through her body before he inches toward her and cautiously lifts an arm around her shoulders to give her a comforting squeeze.

She tentatively leans into his warmth as she wipes sloppily at her tears and peers at him through wet eyes. "Do you really believe that?"

"That all depends on you," he responds.

She frowns, "I don't want to be just the next sensible step in your life plan."

He shakes his head with a throaty chuckle, "We're anything but sensible, Syd. That's what always made us so great."

Sydney fights a smile at the tenderness of his words and is trying to form a coherent response when a very wet Quentin comes bounding up the beach, slides to a halt, and sends a spray of sandy saltwater flying over the pair as she shakes her soaked coat dry. Sydney's sharp laugh bursts through the heavy aura of sadness and she turns to Vaughn once again, "So where does this leave us? What are you really here for, Vaughn?"

His answer is simple.

"I came for _you_."

Her smile is tired, but genuine as she questions him.

"What took you so long?"

TBC…


	7. Embark

Well, here it is. The end. I _really_ hope it's not too anti-climactic. bites nails It's only midnight, but I feel like it's about 4 am...so I'll do another proofread in the morning. Until then, all mistakes are my own. Well...they'd still be mine...but you know what I mean.

**Part 7-Embark**

_Six Months Later_

The name 'Bristow' is now stenciled across the dented side of the metal mailbox in neat, block letters. Monthly bills, grocery ads, and the occasional greeting card are addressed to one Sydney Bristow, a quiet and unattached young woman who lives in a house near the beach.

Sydney Bristow doesn't work in real estate. She prefers the rich and satisfying flavor of coffee to the herbal tastes of tea, and favors the classic literatures of Austen and the Brontes over the bestselling works of Danielle Steele. Sydney Bristow is a lover of romance because (and perhaps in spite) of the fact that she has both loved and lost. She speaks an ever-growing number of foreign languages and loves nothing more than to sprint along the hard-packed beach sand with her dog at her side. And though her transformation from the enigmatic Megan Andrews to the cultured and assertive Sydney might have raised a number of questions in any other town; in a community full of free-spirits just looking to escape the world's rat-race, the questions remain unspoken.

She doesn't attempt to pretend that Michael Vaughn's departure hasn't had any ill-effect on her. Such a charade would be a complete waste of energy in light of the fact that there are little signs of his absence nearly everywhere she turns. Like the frigid mornings when she wakes up with her toes curled against the cold and wishes he was there to make her daily cup of coffee. Or when she _finally_ got around to reading Nikolai Gogol's _The Overcoat_, which he had pestered her to do for so many years.

Or on the beach.

The sincerity of his words echoes in the back of her mind every time she passes what she has unwittingly come to know as 'the spot' in the sand. She knows that it wouldn't be difficult to take another route for her evening walks with Quentin. The beaches within walking distance of her home are numerous, but such a change has become unthinkable. She aches for him, right down to the marrow of her bones, and though the reminiscence might sting, it's also the mark of a beginning. Because Vaughn's arrival, despite his subsequent departure, has been the impetus for something that has proven to be well-worth the painful twinges of loneliness.

She finally remembers how easy it is to just be Sydney.

* * *

The day is uncharacteristically cold for spring in Fort Bragg, but the broken rays of sunlight passing through the warped windowpanes belie the harsh bite of the frosty air. The groan of the heater and the sounds of pages turning provide a soothing ambience for Sydney as she sits at her desk with a red pen in hand. Her students seemed appreciative of her offer to devote the final period of the day to some silent reading and with a quick surveying glance, she confirms that they are quite engrossed in _Death of a Salesman_. With a glance up to the clock, Sydney watches as the second-hand ticks excitedly toward the twelve and she grins when she hears the sounds of rustling papers and backpack zippers. With the sound of the bell, her students are filing quickly out the door with polite smiles as she calls out her good-byes. The heavy wooden door slams loudly behind them and immediately muffles the din of hallway chatter.

Lowering her head to into her hands, she sighs. Today has been one of her more difficult days; the kind that has her wondering why she didn't pack her things and accompany him hand-in-hand back to LA. The enthusiasm of her students and the friendliness of her fellow teachers have made it tolerable, but she can't wait to get home to relax and remind herself of just why her decision to stay in Fort Bragg was the right one.

This answer to this question eludes her as she gathers her belongings from her desk. She's still not entirely sure of what she wants, but the position as a long-term substitute teacher had virtually fallen in her lap and it's something she enjoys. For the time being anyway.

The cool air tickles the back of her neck and Sydney finds herself shivering as she makes her departure through the front office of the high school. Tossing a smile and a wave to the secretary behind the desk, she lets the door fall to a noisy close behind her. She starts her car with a tired sigh and attempts to adjust the seat for the umpteenth time. She's had the car for nearly six months now, but she has yet to find the elusive seat position that perfectly fits her height and posture. Satisfied that she's comfortable enough for now, she turns towards home.

* * *

The steady torrent of mixed emotions weighs her down as she pushes through her front gate. Her tall figure sags slightly beneath the exhaustion of the day, but she manages a smile when she hears the gate latch quietly without any hint of its former rusted state. Juggling her keys with her briefcase and a stack of papers, she finally manages to jimmy the front door open without dropping anything.

With a satisfied hum, she immediately drops her keys to the coffee table and sinks into the couch cushions with closed eyes. The moment of bliss is abruptly ended, however, when she tenses at the feel of hands brushing across her eyelids in an attempt to blindfold her. Her immediate response puts her on the defense and she is already planning her first move when a gentle kiss to the top of her head prompts rational thought to give way to a particularly emotional memory.

_"So where do we go from here?" _

_Despite the dim evening, he can see the uncertain expression on her face as they tread through the sand in the darkness and he can feel her nerves as he holds her cold hand in his._

_"We go to your place. And we get warm," he replies lightly._

_"Vaughn," she chides, "I'm serious."_

_He shrugs, "I know you are. And the answer is, 'I don't know.' I think we're going to have to figure this one out as we go."_

_She sounds uncertain as she responds, "I can't go back, Vaughn. Not yet. I just—I just need you to realize that it might take some time. Even if we work things out between us, there are other things I need to deal with."_

_"And I'll be here to help you sort through those issues. I'll catch a plane on Fridays after work and be back on Sunday nights. Just say the word." he offers sincerely._

_"You'd be going to an awful lot of trouble just to be my confidante," she remarks._

_With a tug of her hand, he reels her around and up against his chest before pulling her into a reverent hug, "Nothing is too much trouble when it comes to your happiness, __Sydney__. Nothing."_

Unable to contain her giddy grin, she places her hands over his, "I thought you were still supposed to be in France. I wasn't planning on seeing you until next weekend."

"I know, but I realized something," he whispers conspiratorially. "I needed to be here."

Her hands fall into her lap and he lifts his palms away from her eyes. Tensing her shoulders in an attempt to harness her excitement, she squeezes her eyes to a close when she feels a trace of teary moisture threatening to spill. Hoping to prevent the light mood from being burdened with talk of I'm sorry and what-if, she gives him a cheeky smile, "Have I mentioned how much I love you for fixing my front gate the last time you were here?"

"Once or twice," he responds with a nonchalant shrug.

"Good. Then I've settled my debt," she nods.

"Not quite," he replies slyly before moving around to the front of the couch.

"I've missed you," she murmurs quietly. "What are you doing here?"

The initial blow of the question is softened by the bright smile on her face and he knows immediately that the words hold no veiled meanings. Still, he feels the age-old sting of guilt's sharp edge when he realizes that her surprise is genuine. That she can't believe he has chosen _her_ over his duties overseas. He can think of millions of words, thousands of explanations for just how important she is to him. How he will do anything for her. How making the two hour flight to see her is something like an involuntary reflex and requires no thought. Especially on this day of all days.

Instead, he opts for three simple words.

"Happy Birthday, Syd."

* * *

She is in his arms almost immediately and he veers dangerously near the realm of sensory overload as he revels in the feel of her soft body pressed against his, the taste of her forehead against his lips, her creamy vanilla scent, and sound of her excited laugh.

He pulls back for a moment and watches with solemn eyes as she considers the sweetness of his gesture in contrast with his neglectful behavior just one year prior. A secondary result of his surveying gaze is a rush of admiration for her fresh-faced beauty, only enhanced by the glistening track of a lone tear. All signs of her accident have long since faded away and with them, it seems, went so many of the problems that festered between them. After six months worth of lazy weekends, long walks, and the softest of kisses, he's grown accustomed to the faintest hints of suspicion glossing in her eyes. But today there is something different: a new clarity, a hint of vigor and of adoration as she watches him watching her.

Things are far from perfect, he knows. She still insists that she's not ready to face life back in Los Angeles and he is being completely honest when he tells her that he'll wait until she's ready. But he'd be lying if he claimed that he didn't wish she was with him every morning, noon, and night. Instead he settles for weekends and he figures that the six months of frequent flyer miles he has accrued will prove useful in some future getaway for two.

The smooth slope of her jawline proves all too tempting and with a soft hand, he finds himself tracing its shape and reveling in the pleasant upward curve of her smiling lips. She'd nearly crumbled almost a month before when he'd informed her that he would be overseeing a deep cover operation in Paris for several weeks and would be unable to see her, but she'd claimed to understand his lack of choice in the matter. However, as her birthday drew closer and the completion of the mission seemed more distant than ever, he became aware of just how skewed his priorities had become. A quick phone-call to headquarters had resulted in a long string of reprimands as well as the promise of a formal inquiry upon his return, but if such consequences were allowing him to be here with Sydney, his decision had been the right one. Protocol be damned.

As they lower themselves to the couch, their upper-bodies still entwined, her arms tighten their hold and her lashes flutter against his jaw. He feels her nose pressing against his neck and shivers at the tickling sensation of her lips as she whispers, "I can't believe you did this."

He responds gratefully, "I can't believe you let me."

* * *

The moments pass quickly for as long as they're locked in their tight embrace, something that they've become accustomed to in past months. Sydney can't help but smile as she glances around her small home. For as much as she notices the little signs of his absence when he's gone, the signs of his presence in her life are nearly as powerful. The ragged pair of tennis shoes he often wears to take Quentin down to the beach. The flannel pants and t-shirt that often end up with her dirty laundry after he leaves on Sunday nights. Or the pillow that he's claimed as his own; the one she's been sleeping on every night since the last time he left.

One minute of such thoughts soon becomes an hour and Sydney lifts her head questioningly from Vaughn's shoulder when he rises from the comfort of the couch cushions. His head lolls to one side as he eyes her impatiently, "It _is_ your birthday." Holding out a hand, he guides her into the kitchen and hands her a covered basket before opening the backdoor to allow an anxious Quentin to scamper into the house. Sydney cringes noticeably at the sound of the dog's claws scraping loudly against the flooring, but her sour expression is quickly replaced with a bemused one when she spots the cone-shaped party hat perched atop the dog's head.

She turns to Vaughn with raised eyebrows, "You're tormenting my dog?"

"Hey," he raises his hands in defense before leaning down to give the dog an affectionate scratch behind the ears. He shrugs good-naturedly, "She was a willing participant."

Sydney rolls her eyes, "I'm sure she was just begging you for the chance to wear such a fashionable accessory."

He chuckles, "It's time for her walk. Let's go." And snatching the leash on their way out the door, he snaps it to the dog's collar before the trio heads down the sidewalk.

* * *

The walk to the beach is a quick one and they exchange brief summaries of the happenings in the time they've been apart. Stepping hand-in-hand, they keep their distance from the water in an effort to stave off the evening chill. They let Quentin romp freely in the distance and laugh at the squawks of the indignant seagulls as she barks fiercely.

Seated comfortably on a small dune, Sydney watches Vaughn in amazement as he pulls a sumptuous plate of tiramisu from the basket. With one fork to share between the both of them, Vaughn generously offers the first bite and Sydney nearly moans over the delectable flavor of the espresso-soaked cake. After having devoured the delicious dessert, Sydney is surprised to see Vaughn pull a small, elegantly-wrapped gift from the basket.

"Vaughn," she starts to protest, "you've already done so…"

He cuts her off before she can finish, "Don't worry, Syd. I kind of cheated on this part."

Furrowing her brow in confusion, he elaborates, "This was supposed to be your gift on your last birthday." His face falls slightly, "Unfortunately, we didn't exactly get around to gift-giving as you know."

She nods silently, not about to reopen the can of worms, and accepts the flat, rectangular package before carefully peeling the tape from the wrapping paper. Tearing the decorative layer away, she halts her movements when she sees the faded, gilt letters spelling _'The Sound and the Fury'_. Ripping the rest of the paper off, she discovers a slightly battered, but early edition of her favorite novel. Feeling her throat tighten with emotion, she utters with a strained voice, "Vaughn?"

He shrugs rather sheepishly, "It's a first edition. I mean, it's not exactly in mint-condition and it's missing the dustjacket, but I know how much you loved the book Weiss gave you and the ones your dad bought your mom so…"

Tears are blurring her vision and she shakes her head in an attempt to clear her eyes, "It's perfect, Vaughn. How did you remember?"

He lifts an arm and pulls her close before pressing a kiss to her tear-moistened cheek, "That it's your favorite? Of course I remember, Sydney." He laughs and gestures towards Quentin, "I mean, come on—Quentin?"

She releases something between a laugh and a sob in response before leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips, "Thank you, Michael."

He grins, "You're welcome, but we're not quite done."

She tilts her head in surprise as he pulls yet another tiny box from the pocket of his jacket.

"This," he starts as he eyes the small box, "is really more of a gift for me." Placing the small package in her hand, he smiles nervously.

As soon as she has pulled the paper away, she feels the black velvet beneath her fingertips and she can feel teardrops forming once again.

Lifting the lid, Sydney pulls in a ragged breath as she comes face to face with the ring she left in her apartment all those months ago. Lifting her teary-eyes to his, she speaks his name once again, "Vaughn…"

He lifts a finger to her lips and effectively blocks protests of any kind before taking the box back, "There's no pressure here, Sydney. I'm not expecting a yes or no answer of any kind. I'm simply returning something that was and will always be rightfully yours." He gives her a crooked half-grin, "I think this ring deserves a second chance just as much as we do, don't you agree?"

She can't help but chuckle at his reasoning and she nods, "I guess maybe you're right."

Vaughn grins, "All I'm asking you to do is hang on to this, Syd. And tell me when you're ready, if you'll ever be ready. We can go from there."

Sydney eyes him for a good several seconds. There are defined creases in his forehead and his eyes are watching her earnestly as she mulls over his words. She nods and smiles as she quietly responds, "Okay."

* * *

It's only been three months worth of weekends since his pillow and blanket were upgraded from their spot on Sydney's couch to a side of Sydney's bed, but he's already well-acquainted with the protesting groan of the squat, queen-sized frame as he rolls towards Sydney's side of the mattress. She smiles when she feels the warmth of his body pressed against her own and she's embarrassed to hear something resembling a purr erupt from somewhere within as she presses her cold feet against his warm ones. He smiles slightly and feels her turn over within his grasp until he can feel her chest; feel her heartbeat against his own.

It's some time later when he awakens with empty arms and an empty bed. Moonlight spills unevenly through the curtains and if he listens carefully, he can hear the swishing of the surf. The floor is cold beneath his feet and he hisses as he patters across the room. The house isn't a big one, so it only takes one sweeping glance for him to spot her silhouetted figure standing on the front porch. Stepping quietly through the front door, hoping not to startle her, he moves to stand behind her and whisper into her ear, "Syd? What are you doing out here? You're going to freeze." He confirms his own statement with a quick look at the thin cotton pants and tank top she's wearing.

She gives him a soft smile, but says nothing as he reaches for her hand to lead her back inside. He stops, however, when her hand lands on his in a silent plead for understanding. Gently and without urgency, she gives his hand a tug and beckons him toward the porch railing where, thanks to her coastal location, they have a clear view of the starlit sky.

"Michael, I'm ready to come back."

"Come back?" He questions in confusion.

She nods assuredly, "Vaughn. I'm _ready_."

Suddenly a break in the cloud-cover allows for a moment of complete illumination by moonlight and as Sydney is bathed in the silver light, it causes something on her left hand to glint.

Raking a joyous hand through his hair, Vaughn lets out a breath and nods, "You're ready. To come back to LA?"

She nods silently, a pleased smile playing over her features, as Vaughn wraps his arms around her and she clutches at the soft fabric of his t-shirt in an effort to pull him closer. Their lips are soft and warm, despite the frosty air that surrounds them, and they each remain oblivious to anything and everything but the fact that they have reached the end of one journey only to embark upon another. That this moment would be the beginning of something new.

And it started with a kiss.

_End Roundabout_

Thank you to each and every one of you for the tremendous amount of support you've shown for this fic. This has been quite a journey to write and, while I'm sad to see it end, I'm also glad to have it finished. For those interested, I will now be getting back to work on "To Everything Its Place" and hope to have a chapter posted sometime in the not-too-distant future. Thank you again and Happy Reading! Ellie


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